Another Reason Altogether
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Sherlock and John get caught up in an explosive investigation very close to home.  John/Sherlock established relationship.  Sequel to "Personal Information".
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is set a month after "Personal Information" and deals heavily with the events in that story, so if you haven't read that yet, you should do so. **Silverwolf04** and **mustangwoman**, this one's for you. You know why... As always: I do not own, nor do I profit from. Enjoy!

* * *

Sherlock was concentrating.

This was difficult.

Normally it was not difficult, but normally, he did not need to concentrate when John had his shirt off. At least, he did not have concentrate on things other than immediate concerns when he managed to get John half-naked. It was a blessing, he supposed, that this had never been required on a case, but he was also hard pressed to come up with a reason _why_ John would have to strip down for a case. Considering this would be immensely entertaining, except that he had to concentrate.

John was drowsing, somewhere between being awake and half-asleep, his head lolled forward, but every so often, he'd make an "mmph" sound, either in protest or approval, or a bit of both. Sherlock found this distracting as well and used his considerable control over his mind to remain focused, because if he slipped up, John would retaliate somehow.

Not that Sherlock thought John would ever actually hurt him, because he could also rein himself in very quickly, but he'd defend himself against pain first, without thinking about it. That was simply instinct. Especially when dealing with an old wound that was already aching.

The weather was changing, and rain was moving in.

This always made John's shoulder hurt, and the unseasonal nature of the rain was making it somewhat worse, because he wasn't used to it in the summer. It was cooler than normal for July, but not terribly so, warm enough still that the flat was a pleasant temperature and John could relax properly even without a shirt on (Sherlock could think of a number of ways to get John to relax without _anything_ on, but John was being stubborn), and it cooled down enough at night to sleep well, without resorting to the air conditioning unit John had made them buy two years ago. Sherlock didn't like the forced cold air – it felt false and smelled odd, even though it did make the temperature in the flat much more tolerable during the worst of the summer heat waves.

"Mmm…" John said, or sighed, as Sherlock carefully worked his long fingers around the old scar, massaging into aching muscles. John had taken some ibuprofen, but it didn't help much when the weather changed quickly. Sherlock kept a sharp ear open for the first sign of the rain, but it was still coming, not quite arrived yet. He hoped John would be able to sleep that night, since the doctor seemed to be invested in a regular sleep schedule. Sherlock could think of an infinite number of things more interesting than sleeping – who wanted to fritter their life away in semi-consciousness? He understood the value when he needed to, but he didn't understand people who really enjoyed it. Like John.

Sherlock didn't bring up the possibility of taking something stronger for the pain. After Edinburgh, he was set on not mentioning the word "morphine" again if he could avoid it. In fact, he was fairly set on not mentioning their last trip to Edinburgh at all, because he'd made a right idiot of himself in the vaults, and he didn't want to contemplate how Mycroft was or what he was doing or where he was doing whatever it was he was doing. Sherlock had no interest in speculation, nor did he have much interest in his brother and his brother's son.

He hadn't seen his brother since the previous month, and had only heard from him once, briefly, via text message, alerting Sherlock that David was returned safely and more or less unharmed. Sherlock wasn't entirely certain he cared, although John seemed to want to know. Sherlock had no desire to get further implicated in his brother's life and actions, and wanted to be well out of it if consequences came down from whoever Mycroft's superiors were. It wasn't likely to be pretty.

John hissed, dragging Sherlock back to the present.

"Sorry," Sherlock said quickly, automatically. John was one of the only people he apologized to, and the only one to whom he ever meant it on a regular basis. Especially when it involved accidentally aggravating the old injury.

He refocused his concentrating, shifting slightly on the couch to prevent his legs from falling asleep. John sighed again and tilted his head more to the right. Growing bored, Sherlock leaned forward gently and kissed John's shoulder once, lightly, then again, moving one hand away so he could trail his lips up toward John's neck. The doctor made a contented noise, but then said:

"No, you don't. You're not getting out of this that easily."

Sherlock growled against John's skin, hoping to get the reaction he was looking for, but John held firm.

"Shoulder still hurts," John said pointedly.

With a put-upon sigh, Sherlock leaned back and resumed massaging, taking care not to press too deeply despite his desire to get John to tell him to stop and continue with something else instead. It probably wouldn't work anyway, and John might call the whole thing off just to annoy him.

Sherlock kept working, carefully, then leaned in again after five minutes, placing a kiss just below John's ear. The doctor raised his head and twisted it slightly, his brown eyes amused.

"Give it up, Holmes," he said. "You still have work to do."

"Blast," Sherlock protested, blowing a sigh into John's ear.

He was right.

The sudden light lit up the edges of the windows, flashing across the flat, which had, up until that moment, been lit only by a single lamp, to keep the atmosphere dim and relaxed. John instinctively shielded his eyes by dropping his head and holding his crossed arms in front of his face; Sherlock had less training in this regard and pulled back, turning his face away from the window, toward the bedroom, closing his eyes hard.

The sound wave hit him like a hammer, making him wince. John was off the couch in an instant, then crouching and ducking his head back down when another blast lit up the room, slamming them with the sound. Sherlock stood hurriedly after the second explosion. John was already pulling his shirt back on, going for his shoes, acting completely on trained instinct. Sherlock followed his lead, knowing John had much more experience and expertise in this. He waited for another blast, but none seemed forthcoming, and John threw the door open, clattering down the steps.

"Stay inside!" the doctor yelled at Mrs. Hudson, holding up a warding hand at her as she appeared in her doorway. "Call 999!"

She glanced between the two of them for a moment, but was ignored as John charged out the main door, Sherlock half a step behind him. The doctor took only half a moment to assess the situation and turned to run north, up the street. Sherlock kept up with him easily, his longer legs making up for John's trained and urgent speed.

It was just over a block, and they could see the glow of the blaze from their flat, lighting up the darkness like an old coastal beacon. In the distance, Sherlock caught the sound of sirens on the breeze, still far off but closing. More immediate noises filled the air: car alarms set off by the shock wave, people screaming. There was already a flow of people running past them in the opposite direction, almost matched by the people running with them, toward the flames and the source of the blast.

It appeared to be two separate things: a car which was now blazing, burning brightly, and a multi-storey flat, from which he could see flames licking at open windows. Glass was shattered on the concrete and smoke choked the air, along with the screams and the distant but growing sounds of sirens. John was plunging past the crowd that was gathering, keeping itself away from the car, and Sherlock went after him without question. Nothing was going to stop John from doing what he was trained to do, and Sherlock was damned if he was going to let his husband go in there alone. The crowds were confusing, bodies everywhere in the smoke and darkness, lit up by flames, shifting and getting in the way. Some people were trying to pull back from the scene, while residents from the flats beside the one on fire were fleeing their homes, carrying odd assortments of possessions, or children, or pets, or attempting to carry all of these things. Some people were resisting having to leave, insisting that they needed to go back for some precious thing or another, as if their lives were not the most precious thing they could take out of the danger.

There were people rushing into the chaos, though, trying to get a handle on the situation, trying to help somehow. The darkness and the smoke were making it difficult to put together any patterns, to determine who was helping and who was hindering, who was attempting to rescue, and who was in need of rescue. He glanced up; he could see faces in the windows of the burning building, above the flames. And in the windows of the adjacent buildings, some people who were just watching, as if the shock of the incident was too much to react against.

"Get out! Bloody well get out!" he heard someone yell and realized it was John. The sound was lost over the crackle of flames and the human chaos around them.

There were people coming out of the affected building suddenly, and Sherlock noted that, at ground level, the fire seemed to be concentrated in the back of the building, leaving the front entrance relatively safe, although it would not be so for long. People were yelling at cross-purposes, tugging others away from the burning building. Sherlock followed John toward the blaze, disliking the situation but unwilling at all to let John out of his sight. John would be all heroic because that was what his training entailed, and he was a doctor, but Sherlock wasn't going to lose him to any kind of stupidity. And he himself would be much better at picking up on details like when a wall was about to collapse or a window about to blow out.

The fire was already spreading.

And it began to rain.

"You're bloody kidding, right?" Sherlock growled to himself, to the weather, knowing the flames in the flat and from the burning car were too hot to be put out by a summer storm, although it may help temper things long enough for the fire department to arrive.

He saw a woman rounding up two frightened children, towing them away as they tried to stumble toward the car, then being joined by a man peeling away from the crowd who herded them toward safety, or as much a safety as there was in the unnaturally bright night. The smoke made him cough and grimace, but he ignored that as he caught up with John, who had crouched down to help a fallen man to his feet, wrapping one of the man's arms around his own shoulders.

_Must hurt_, Sherlock noted absently, although John had probably forgotten about the aching pain. He wrapped the man's other arm around his own shoulders, nodding once at John, and they walked him slowly in step away from the building. There was a gash on the side of his head, pouring blood. Head wound, which meant a lot of blood but not necessarily a deep injury, although a concussion was likely. Given the man's glassy eyes and unbalanced gait, this seemed to be the case. He was concentrating hard, but still stumbling. Clear indications that his head was more than a little addled.

A gust of wind caught the flames and they roared for a moment. John ducked, dragging Sherlock and the man between them down toward the pavement momentarily, then hustled them away. He entrusted the injured man to someone and turned back, heading into the smoke and the fray again, Sherlock right behind him. Another figure appeared in the haze, moving past them, stunned, and Sherlock pointed her in the right direction and gave her a small shove to keep her going.

He almost tripped over someone who was on the ground next to an unmoving body, getting ready to shoulder the young man to get him out of danger. Sherlock cursed and so did the rescuer, looking up. His face was wrapped in a scarf against the smoke – Sherlock barely had a moment to wonder why he'd had a scarf on him in the July weather.

Grey eyes met green through the smoke and fire-tinged darkness, and recognition flashed in both sets of eyes. Sherlock didn't let himself stop, didn't let himself draw attention to it or think about it, because John was still moving, and Sam was shouldering the young man he'd been crouching next to, getting him out of the way. Sherlock kept his attention in front of him, following John up the front steps to herd some people fleeing the burning building. The fire was spreading now, undaunted by the rain, but the sirens were almost on them.

He looked up when they got the small, sobbing crowd away from the building, seeing Sam moving through the haze again, clearing a spot for the unconscious man he'd been carrying. He looked up and met Sherlock's eyes again, giving the smallest of nods, then glanced away, in the direction of the rapidly approaching sirens. He gave an order to someone standing over him to watch the young man and started to head back, as if to resume his rescue attempts.

On the way by, he reached out, pressing something into Sherlock's palm. The consulting detective pocketed the mobile without even looking at it. Sam vanished as the police arrived, pulling off his scarf, turning into another Londoner watching the scene, or trying to get away from it. Sherlock understood; Sam wouldn't go unnoticed by the London police if any of them happened to have worked with him in Charing Cross or at Scotland Yard. Given the size of the emergency, Sherlock suspected he could easily have run into one person he knew, and, although he did not look quite the same, a good police officer would recognize him.

Sherlock put all of this out of his mind within a second as the first of the emergency vehicles began to arrive. He kept up with John, who attached himself to a paramedic's unit and began treating some of the injured who were brought over to them. Sherlock was by no means a doctor, but could follow directions and think under pressure, so he listened to John, obeying the doctor's barked commands when needed and staying out of the way when not. He tried to gauge the situation, determine what had happened, but there were too many people, too many police officers, paramedics, and fire fighters, all adding to the confusion caused by the flames and the smoke.

It was hours before the fire was controlled and out, spreading to a neighbouring building before it could be contained. It was hours more until the wounded were all shipped to hospitals and the police rounded up all those involved in any rescue efforts to talk to them. Sherlock actually knew some of the officers, who kindly spoke to him and John early on. He had worked with these two once or twice, and they had been appropriately impressed by his deductive abilities. John gave them their numbers in case they needed to answer further questions and Sherlock suspected strongly they would be hearing from Lestrade in short order. John declined any medical treatment for either of them, pointing out he was a doctor.

When they finally seemed to be left alone, standing in a still large crowd of people in the fading night, John looked up at Sherlock, as if mildly surprised to find him there. Then he rubbed his arms and shivered once. It was still raining, not hard, but almost mistily, so that there was no escape from it, and cold wound into the bones, defiant against any clothing or the lingering heat from the building and vehicle fires.

"Let's go home," John said, nodding down the street. They made their way through the crowds, mostly people still gawking now, but irate cabbies trying to get through and extraneous police and fire fighters milling around, trying to figure out if they should still be there or should be leaving the scene. John and Sherlock were largely ignored, until they came back into the flat to find Mrs. Hudson waiting for them. John filled her in as best he could, and Sherlock dispensed of her fussing, herding John up the stairs and back into their flat.

They stripped down in the bathroom without preamble and climbed into the shower, the water running grey with soot and smoke from their hair and skin. When clean, Sherlock noticed his own skin was redder. John's was too.

"From the heat," John said. "Not burns, though."

They washed and got out, leaving their smoky clothing in a heap on the bathroom floor. In their bedroom, John shuffled into pyjamas and crawled into bed. Sherlock changed as well, getting in beside his husband. He didn't feel particularly tired, more wound up from the experience, but John was asleep almost as soon as his head touched his pillow. Sherlock looked at the clock – he'd have to call John out from work later in the morning. There was no way he was letting John be an idiot and go in after that, with what would amount to little sleep after a night of smoke inhalation and emergency medicine.

He thought he wouldn't sleep, until fatigue hit him suddenly and he closed his eyes, wrapping himself snugly against John, who murmured and responded with his own embrace, nuzzling his face against Sherlock's neck and chest, so that a flash of desire coursed through Sherlock. He was too tired to do anything about it, however, and he knew John was not about to wake up.

It was in the moment before he went to sleep, when he was unable to wrench himself back to consciousness, that he remembered the phone Sam had given him, still in the pocket of his trousers on the bathroom floor. Sherlock grunted in displeasure, then surrendered to sleep, having no other option. It would have to wait.


	2. Chapter 2

He awoke with a start later that morning, immediately aware that it was brighter than it should have been if he wanted to call John out of work in time, and that John was not in the bed, nor in the flat. Sherlock stared at the empty space on the bed beside him. It had been unoccupied long enough for John's pillow to lose some of the impression of his head, and for the space where his body had been to cool.

He had an indistinct memory of John kissing him before he got out of bed, but it had felt like a dream, light and not well remembered.

Sherlock sat up fast, tossing the covers off and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He ignored the dehydrated feeling in his mouth – the smoke was responsible for that, and the fact that he hadn't had his morning cuppa at the regular time – and scooped up his phone. He could still smell the faint scent of smoke clinging to him and the sheets, even though he and John had both showered before going to bed. He wrinkled his nose; the scent was unpleasant, and seemed to be lodged in his nostrils.

He unlocked his phone, checking the time, a little after nine in the morning.

_Where the bloody hell are you?_ he sent to John, as though he didn't know.

Sherlock stared at the phone as if his gaze could somehow be transported across the distance to John's clinic to catch the doctor's attention. He chewed on his lower lip impatiently, tapping his fingers against his phone, as though this would speed up the reply.

_At work, where else?_ John answered after two minutes and twenty-three seconds.

_What the bloody hell are you doing at work? Are you sodding mad? How much sleep did you get? You are the most unbelievably stubborn, irritating, daft, maddening, imbecilic, mulish, idiotic, thick-headed, foolish, dense, obstinate man I've ever known! Why on Earth would you go into work today? _

There was a delay in the reply and Sherlock suddenly realized that he perhaps shouldn't have used all of those adjectives, nor sent that text message. He was about to ring John when a reply came back.

_I love you, too_.

Sherlock growled to avoid sighing. His phone rang and he answered it immediately.

"You – " he started, but John cut him off, sounding tired but amused.

"I woke up anyway," he said. "And you were fast asleep. It was easier than calling out."

"Easier?" Sherlock demanded, gesturing with a hand up the street, as though John could see him. "There were two bloody explosions last night, and you doing triage and inhaling smoke and working in the rain and – "

"You know, if I didn't know better, I'd almost think you were worried about me," John cut in, and there was a smile in his voice that made Sherlock narrow his eyes.

"You're being impractical," Sherlock said coolly. "Surely your patients require a doctor who is well rested and alert."

"Sorry?" John said. "This from a man who will happily keep me up all night shagging and then expect me to go into work as per normal?"

"Shagging is good exercise, very good for the cardiovascular system and for relieving stress," Sherlock replied, keeping his tone deliberately severe. "And if you come home tired, you won't be interested in it tonight."

He could almost hear John roll his eyes.

"You are, I think, the most single-minded person I've ever met."

"I know what I like," Sherlock sniffed.

"I know you know what you like," John replied, obviously grinning. "You take every opportunity to demonstrate it to me. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Listen, Sherlock, I've got to ring off, I've got patients. I'll be home in the afternoon. Why don't you take this golden opportunity to fend off Lestrade and to do some laundry? The bathroom stinks of smoke from our clothes."

"You want me to do _chores_?" Sherlock asked, spitting out the last word with heavy disdain, impressing on John how far beneath him this was.

"Far be it for me to ask my husband to do something about the flat, yes?" John replied, but he was still smiling; Sherlock could hear it. "Consider it foreplay. I'll have too much to do tonight if you don't lend a hand."

Sherlock growled and John chuckled. John always knew how to back him into a corner with domestic responsibilities, although, truth be told, Sherlock did not mind so much as he let on. But better John not know that.

"Fine," he agreed. "But you're required to come straight home after work, no dilly dallying, no wasting time with your friends there."

"Who put you in charge?"

"_I_ put me in charge. I'm clearly the superior intellect. It stands to reason that my decisions are better thought out and more practical and applicable to our lives."

"Uh huh," John replied, obviously humouring him. "I'll talk to you later, Sherlock. Be civil, at least, when Greg calls. None of this 'clearly you have no idea what you're about' talk – you know it just puts him off. I'll see you later. I love you."

"I love you, too," Sherlock said, warmth slipping into his voice, despite himself. He heard John chuckle again as he rung off, but didn't mind so much. Although he would rather his husband's warm body was still in their bed, relaxed, eyes half lidded and languid. And preferably without any clothing on.

He sighed dramatically, even though there was no one there to see him.

Really, did John have no consideration at all for Sherlock's needs?

Sherlock considered ringing him back, but it would make no difference; if John were seeing a patient, he wouldn't answer. Another indication John wasn't paying enough attention to him – he should be putting Sherlock first, not these people with their runny noses and sprained ankles and general nonsense.

Of course, the same didn't apply to him. His cases were _important._

As if Lestrade had read his mind, Sherlock's phone lit up with his number. For once, the consulting detective ignored it; he had no desire at the moment to rehash the night before, to explain to Lestrade that he had no good sense of what had happened beyond the obvious, if only because of the smoke, rain, and chaos, and trying to keep an eye on John rather than investigate the source of the fire, which had been still burning at that time, too.

Plus, he wasn't certain he wanted to talk to Lestrade so soon after seeing Sam. Not that Sherlock would slip up about it, but something in him felt vaguely guilty – _don't be ridiculous_, he told himself, but the feeling wouldn't quite dissipate. Lestrade had been Sam's former boss at the Yard, and had no idea Sam was still alive.

Of course, technically, he wasn't. Yves Bessette was alive, but Sherlock never bothered thinking of him that way. Sam was Sam. Even if he _had_ been two other people prior to that.

Out of everything he wanted to know, Sherlock most wished he understood why Interpol had decided to change Sam's identity again, relocate him, remove him from everyone he'd known, people who may have assisted in his recovery. He had wanted to ask the last time he'd seen Sam, but had recognized that the other man, the former constable and current Interpol agent, had still been extremely fragile and injured and that it was best not to press too hard for details.

Sherlock stood, dismissing these thoughts, and went into the bathroom, wrinkling his nose. John had been right; it did smell in here. He gathered up the still-damp clothing and took it to the bedroom, tossing it in the hamper, then shuffling through his trousers to pull out the mobile Sam had given him.

Not so strange an item to be given, all things considered. Mycroft was undoubtedly monitoring the numbers dialling into Sherlock's phone – and John's – and Sam was probably well aware of that, since Sam was the one who had initiated some Interpol surveillance of Sherlock's brother. He wondered about the world these two men had chosen to live in, and what it meant.

No, he knew what it meant. For Sam it meant permanent exile from the person he'd been born as, and for Mycroft it meant denying a son until he was forced into admitting his part in David's life. It meant more resources than Sherlock could properly dream of, but more isolation, too.

Once, perhaps, he would not have minded, or cared.

Before John.

Now, he would not trade it for the world. Not if it meant losing the person who meant the most to him.

Did Mycroft or Sam have people who meant the most to them? If they did, did those people know it, or was it too dangerous?

All things considered, Sherlock thought, he was quite content, even if John _was_ being a right idiot today and not at all thinking about Sherlock's needs.

He fished out his shirt and sniffed it, then sighed.

Ruined. Utterly ruined. The smoke still clung to the purple silk, which was irrevocably water damaged. Sherlock gave the shirt a sad look. It had been one of his favourites. More importantly, it had been one of John's favourites. It got more of a response from John – normally – than Sherlock wearing jeans did. He had worn it the previous day for precisely that reason, but John had been distracted by the aches in his shoulder and then, of course, by the explosions.

Sherlock sighed again to himself, giving the shirt a resigned look. He was going to have to bin it. And buy a new one. Or just go about shirtless around the flat from now on – John liked that, too.

He put the shirt aside and turned on the mobile Sam had given him, waiting while it picked up a signal. It was a small, non-descript thin black phone, just a phone, not anything fancy. Sherlock checked the contacts list, but there was nothing saved to it, nor was there any calling history, or text messages. Whatever Sam wanted, Sherlock was going to have to wait for it.

And the phone was only charged to half battery, so he'd have to find a charger for it among his tangle of phone accessories, or go buy one. Unless, of course, Sam contacted him sooner rather than later. How tiresome that Sam hadn't left a number programmed into the phone at which Sherlock could reach him.

He changed, dressing smartly even though he had no firm plans to go anywhere that day, because one never knew and it paid to look sharp, but putting on the bunny slippers that John so despaired of. Sharp _and_ comfortable, a good combination. He could easily kick them off if anyone dropped in unexpectedly. He wasn't about to be caught wearing them by anyone but John. Perhaps by Tricia. If he were in the proper mood.

Sherlock went into the kitchen with both phones – _tethered by wireless electronics_, he thought – and made coffee instead of tea, wanting something stronger. He fried up some eggs and made some toast, since he was hungry and John wasn't home to tease him about it. He ate perfunctorily but enjoyed the coffee, at least until Lestrade rang again.

With a sigh, Sherlock put his phone on speaker.

"Yes?" he enquired, taking another sip of his coffee, wrapping both hands around the mug, enjoying the warmth. At least that morning, John hadn't hidden the sugar. What _was_ his obsession with that? It was maddening. But also somewhat fun, although he'd never admit that to his husband.

"You and John all right then?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He was enquiring first about their well-being – unusual, but not completely out of character. It probably meant he didn't know much but also didn't expect much information from Sherlock.

"Fine," Sherlock replied. "John is at work."

"After that?"

"No point trying to talk sense into him," Sherlock agreed.

"Right, because you always listen to reason," Lestrade shot back and Sherlock rolled his eyes, sipping his coffee again.

"Details," Sherlock said.

"I'd love to give you some, I really would," Lestrade sighed. "This is a mess. Media's all over it, but forensics are almost completely useless."

"Well, of course they are, if Anderson is working this," Sherlock said, letting disdain slip into his voice. "You know, I do have a ten-month-old niece who would be quite a bit more qualified, even though she does not entirely speak English yet. Shall I send her round for an interview? Or perhaps just over to the crime scene?"

"What, you're not down there right now yourself, harassing my people?"

"Since when am I not one of your people? And no, I was enjoying a coffee until you called. In case you did not hear, John and I were there until shortly after three this morning. If you feel this is inadequate on our part, you need only say so."

"If I thought there were anything you could contribute, I'd order you down there right now, even if you're not a regular detective. But the car's been incinerated and the building is little more than a shell in most parts. The fire department has their people investigating as well, but I'd be surprised if they found anything."

"As would I," Sherlock agreed. "This was a highly volatile incendiary device, two rather, given the intensity at which the fire burned and the force of the explosions."

"Yes, you'd have felt them. Don't suppose you want to cop to setting them?"

"Please," Sherlock said. "Had I done this, I assure you, it would have been far more sophisticated and carefully directed."

"You know, I believe that? And it's not at all comforting that you said that out loud, Sherlock."

"Merely pointing out the obvious, Lestrade. This wasn't amateur, however, only a little messy. Which suggests that perhaps it was meant to be that."

"I know," Lestrade sighed. "I almost rather it were amateur, idiot teenagers with instructions on bomb making from the internet. But I doubt it, given the nature of the fires."

"Why are you not down there?" Sherlock enquired.

"I'm on my way," Lestrade sighed. "I got a report that you and John were there, assisting the paramedics. Thank you, by the way."

"I was only keeping an eye on John, lest he do something foolishly heroic."

"Right, sure," Lestrade agreed. "Did you see anything?"

"No," Sherlock lied. Nothing that might help them anyway.

_Unless Sam's involved in this_, the little niggling voice at the back of his mind, the one he'd been trying to ignore all morning, told him.

_Shut up_, he told himself.

Sam wouldn't stoop to blowing people up.

Plus, he himself had said he was no longer on field duty, undercover or no. Sherlock could not yet fathom what Sam's presence at the scene meant, but he refused to consider that Sam had played some part in this.

_Because you know him so well_, the little voice chimed. _And an Interpol agent would never lie. Unlike your brother._

_Shut up, shut up_, Sherlock told himself again. Really, he was becoming just as unreasonable as John, but about a different matter.

"Well, if you think of anything, let me know," Lestrade said.

"I shall," Sherlock agreed. This was probably not that interesting of a case, bombing or not. It was likely some organized crime nonsense, which he told himself firmly didn't interest him although, point of order, it did.

"The likelihood of even me spotting something was low, however," he advised Lestrade, speaking to cover the insistent little voice in his head that was being quite a nuisance. "Given the smoke, flames, and rain. It was quite disorganized."

"Yes, well, bomb sites tend to be. In the future, however, we'll try our best to make sure things are better arranged for you."

"Do," Sherlock agreed. "Ring me if you learn anything of interest."

"Yes, right," Lestrade said and Sherlock ignored the heavy and obvious sarcasm in his voice. The man needed to learn to be subtler. They rung off and Sherlock finished his coffee, moving his dishes to the counter. He did the washing up, even though he despised it, because it would make John happy and more amenable to the things Sherlock wanted to do to John when John got home. He was about to go gather the laundry and run it through the washer – another tedious chore – when the phone Sam gave him beeped.

Sherlock snatched it and opened the text message.

_Tonight, 9:20pm. Your flat. John, too._

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, then checked the sunset information for that day. As he suspected, it was precisely the time at which the sun was meant to disappear from the sky. Perfect twilight. When it would be most difficult for passers-by and whatever CCTV cameras Mycroft was employing to identify a man knocking at their flat door. As Sherlock had suspected, Sam was more intelligent and better trained than he'd ever let on during his career as a constable with the London police. This was practical, of course, and Sherlock ignored that same little voice that asked him why he thought he knew who he was dealing with.

Instead, he got the laundry, distracting himself with mundane things and the thought of John, who would get home well before 9:20 that evening, and would surely want to show Sherlock how much he appreciated all of these domestic efforts.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock very conscientiously waited until the laundry had run through the dryer, taking it out and sorting it away, before he prepared to go back to the crime scene up the street. He jotted this down on a bit of paper, sticking it to the fridge, so John would know where he was if the doctor returned before he did, and so that John would also know how considerate and responsible Sherlock had been. It was important that this be acknowledged.

On the way down the steps from the flat, Lestrade rang him again.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered.

"Can you come up?" Lestrade enquired. "We may need your help."

Sherlock paused on the stairs, one hand on the wooden railing.

"I don't think so," he sniffed. "Too much to do today."

"Sherlock," Lestrade growled. "It's a block away from your flat. You want me to send a car?"

"I think my legs can manage, but I am quite occupied," he said, tapping the banister absently with his index finger. "Really, I don't sit about waiting for you to ring every day, you know. Some of us need not be at your beck and call."

"I thought you'd jump at the chance to be here," Lestrade sighed.

"I did," Sherlock agreed. "Last night. As I told you, it was quite chaotic and disorganized. And now Anderson's there. What should I make of anything I'd find?"

"Well, I'd like to know," Lestrade said. "Just get yourself down here, or I _will_ send a car round to pick you up. And to sweep your flat for drugs."

"You'd waste your time with an investigation like this on your hands?" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted. "Just get the bloody hell down here!"

"Very well," Sherlock said coolly, tightening his voice to make himself sound displeased. "I will be there as soon as I can. No need to shout, Lestrade. It's uncivilized."

He hung up as Lestrade cursed wearily at him, and sat down on the stairs, spending a couple of minutes matching the ring tone on the phone Sam had given him to his own phone, so that if it rang, he could always just claim it was his. He wasn't about to leave the passed-off phone in his flat. Although Mycroft had not actually broken in, nor had Sherlock seen him about, he did not need to risk it. And Mrs. Hudson occasionally got it in her head to steal the skull from the mantle, and he didn't need her poking about, finding things she should not.

Then he spent a few minutes sorting through his own text messages, deleting old and extraneous ones, rereading texts from John, some of which were mundane, some touching, some explicit, but all of them heartfelt. He updated his contacts list, ensuring he had no numbers he no longer used, then put his own phone away, pulling Sam's out again.

He sent a reply text to the number from which Sam had sent his message. Sherlock had checked it only to find that it did not, of course, exist. Or, more accurately, was unassigned. He kept the message short and vague, knowing if it were intercepted, it would make little sense and be deemed pointless.

_Get out all right last night?_

A few moments later, he got a reply, mildly surprising him, but he could tell that Sam was even more surprised to have received anything.

_Yes, fine, thank you. No time now, talk tonight._

Sherlock was being dismissed, told not to contact Sam again. He rolled his eyes at the phone – Sam was either being overly cautious or simply obstinate. Without knowing what was afoot, it was difficult to make a decision on that.

He pocketed Sam's phone again and finally left, sauntering up the street, which was still in disarray from the night before. The police barricades started not 100 metres from his flat, blocking off all but one lane of traffic, and there were bobbies everywhere, trying to redirect the vehicles that seemed determined to pass through the cordoned-off areas. There were still a large number of people out, lined up along the barriers, trying to see something, although from this distance, nothing much was visible. Sherlock could just make out where the burnt flat and car were, but only because the crowd of police officers and fire fighters formed a tight knot there.

He walked north along the barricades, as if uninterested, then slipped through the crowds when he judged himself close enough to find an officer who would believe him that Lestrade wanted him there, or at least be able to find the DI in short order to confirm Sherlock's claims.

He was in luck, more or less – it seemed Sally Donovan had been stationed to wait for him. Sherlock wound his way to the barrier several metres from her and made her approach him, her dark eyes glinting.

Around him, some of the people gathered held photographs of missing individuals with names written on them. Sherlock kept his eyes from this, but cast a glance at the building that had been burning in the early hours of the morning. The front ground and second stories were the least affected, but the bricks were blackened with soot and from the heat, and above them, the building was little more than a skeletal structure, the brick façade mostly still intact, but he could see through the windows that there was little to nothing left inside and, indeed, part of the roof had fallen in or burnt away completely.

He was momentarily astonished that anyone had made it out at all, that he and John had managed to get home safely with only heat-reddened skin. They could probably thank the fact that the explosion had detonated in the back of the building, in the cellar, if Sherlock was any judge. He wondered if an accelerant had been used, or if the building's insulation and electrical wiring provided the conduit for the fire to spread rapidly.

"You coming in or not?" Donovan snapped at him.

"Yes, thank you, Sergeant," Sherlock replied coolly, slipping past the barricade that she moved temporarily for him.

"No sidekick today?" she enquired.

Sherlock stopped, feeling a sharp flash of anger, but kept his expression as close to neutral as he could, allowing a hint of irritation to slip in.

"John is not my sidekick. John is my husband. He also happens to be at work. And may I point out that he spent all night here assisting the rescue and providing emergency medical care?"

"We were here all night, too," Donovan shot back.

"And this is your job," Sherlock said simply. "He came to help because he was able to, not because he was required to." He shook his head, moving away, scanning for Lestrade, then stopped, turning back.

"On the outs with Anderson then, are you?" he enquired, unable to resist the temptation.

Donovan fairly growled at him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, impressed at the deep tone which her voice could take on.

"Are you going to tell me you deduced that from the smell of my deodorant, or shampoo, or the state of my clothing, or the length of my nails?" she demanded and Sherlock knew he'd hit the nail on the head – although he'd known that anyway.

"No," he replied. "You let me in without question. You never do that, unless you're having a row with him. What happened, did he promise to leave his wife again and not follow through?"

"You don't even know he's here!" Donovan shot back.

"Of course I do. I talked to Lestrade, and where else would Anderson be, if there were an important case to muck up? Also, I can see him, which I understand you can't, because I do have an advantage in height."

"Go to hell," Donovan muttered, but her voice lacked her usual animosity.

"You're a better woman than that, Sergeant," Sherlock said plainly. "And you're far more intelligent than he is. You should consider why you let him get away with being a total git. Can you point me to Lestrade?"

Donovan stared at him a moment, then narrowed her eyes again.

"In front of the building. Talking with the Fire Commissioner."

"Cheers," Sherlock told her and walked away, feeling her eyes boring a hole into the back of his skull, but ignoring it. Donovan needed to get a handle on her life, he thought, not let Anderson play her the way he did.

As if on cue, Anderson peeled away from a crowd of forensics drones and stalked toward him. Sherlock wondered why, if the country had formerly sanctioned badger culls, he was still around.

"Come to contaminate my scene?" he growled.

"Come back," Sherlock corrected.

"What?" Anderson demanded.

"Come back," Sherlock repeated. "I was here from ten-thirty last night until three-fifteen this morning, assisting with medical care and rescue. Where were you? Home with your wife? Or perhaps one of your other mistresses? Excuse me, Lestrade is waiting."

He made his way past the knots of police officers to the front of the building, noting that the building on the left had sustained a great deal of damage as well, and that none of the windows in either building had glass in them anymore. The street was glinting with small shards among the ashes, crunching under his shoes, reflecting the weak sunlight that broke through the clouds, so that it almost looked like a snowfall in midsummer.

Lestrade was talking to some high placed fire officials, inspectors and the Fire Commissioner himself, as well as some higher ranking police officials, all of them looking very prim and proper in their formal uniforms.

He hesitated a single step, his pace slowing, but not noticeably so. Not because he was faced with these men and women who commanded London's emergency services, no. Because Lestrade was standing almost next to the scarf Sam had been wearing, that he'd dispensed of before leaving the scene, when the police had arrived. In the daylight, Sherlock could clearly tell it wasn't Sam's – it was a woman's accent scarf, threaded with pale pink and violet, as well as silver accents. Sam had probably lifted it from someone he'd been assisting, to mask his face and to keep the worst of the smoke out of his mouth and nose. It was singed around the edges and scored by small burn marks were embers had billowed down onto it. It was the rain, Sherlock thought, that weighted it down enough to keep it in one place, rather than having it drift off in the breeze.

It was utterly incongruous and he felt the night before and the current day overlapping, and Lestrade had absolutely no idea.

Sherlock then made himself ignore this and turned his attention to the crowd of self-important officials and Lestrade. If John were here, he'd tell Sherlock to play nice, so as to gain access to the building, or what was left of it, and to offer his opinion, which would be far more valuable than those already accumulated.

* * *

The car – rather, what remained of the car – was a blackened, burnt, hollowed-out husk, still smoking gently in some parts. The frame was mostly intact, although the roof was partially collapsed, but none of the original paint remained, so no telling what colour it had been. Same with what was left of the interior. Plastic components were melted, fused to one another, misshapen, retaining their liquefied look as they cooled. The back seat was completely burnt away, and the front two seats had been partially eaten by the flames, and most of the fabric covering the seats had been burnt off, leaving only the frames remaining, the metal twisted and still making faint plinking sounds as it cooled.

The car was still identifiable as a Mercedes, but only barely so – the make and model and the company's insignia had been melted off. The registration plates were useless – almost completely incinerated, except for a tiny piece off of the front plate, which Sherlock held his gloved hands. A portion of the EU motif remained, the ring of twelve stars, although only five were visible. And a small chunk of white next to the blue background. Not a British plate, then, but it didn't really narrow it down much more. Well, not Dutch either, Sherlock supposed.

He pushed himself to his feet and walked round to the driver's side, which was on the correct side, indicating the car had been purchased in the UK or made for sale there at least even if it was not registered in England, leaning in to sniff again. The odour of petrol still clung to everything. Not at all a surprising accelerant, especially for a vehicle. He wondered if he'd find the same in the basement of the building or not.

There had obviously been no body in there – even with the heat and intensity of the fire, something would have remained. Unless, of course, it had been removed by Anderson or his lackeys, but the car appeared untouched altogether. This was sensible; if no one had been inside, then the real forensics challenge lay in the building, where people had been and died. Sherlock wondered if they had an accurate count yet. He had not been able to gauge the amount of people that had been treated the night before. John had worked on twelve people – Sherlock _had_ kept count of that – not including the people he'd helped get away from the flames and the smoke. If Sherlock put them altogether, it added up to seventeen people. But there had been at least seven ambulances at one time or another – in this, he was less certain, because he'd been focusing more on assisting John and ensuring the doctor didn't get it in his head to plunge into the burning building in an attempt to save anyone else. Sherlock knew, from the heat of the fire, that those trapped inside were no longer in need of saving. But he kept himself from saying so out loud, because he knew John also knew this, and that his husband would snap at him for being cold and unfeeling when he was really only being practical.

"Not from here," Sherlock said as Lestrade approached him again, having paused to converse with some deputies and some fire officials. Sherlock cast an eye about the crowds, looking for anyone who stood out, anyone who did not seem to belong there, or who was paying the wrong sort of attention to the goings-on, but he could not immediately spot anyone.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock handed him the bit of plate that was still intact.

"White registration plate. Not British. Even though the car was made for the British road system."

"Great, that narrows it down to not Dutch," Lestrade sighed.

"Probably not Belgian, either," Sherlock commented. "As there is no 'B' visible in the ring of stars. Or what's left of it."

"Still," Lestrade sighed. "That leaves us with a lot of possibilities. The car's German make though."

"Which does not mean it came from Germany," Sherlock pointed out. "As I said, made for our road systems. It could easily have been purchased here and licensed somewhere else, or purchased somewhere else with an eye on being brought to the UK. Do we know yet to whom it belongs?"

"We're still working on getting good enough CCTV footage to get the whole plate and run it down," Lestrade replied.

They were interrupted by one of the arson specialists coming for Sherlock.

"You'd best suit up," he said, gesturing for the consulting detective to follow him. "You don't want anything getting on your skin or clothes."

The request actually seemed logical for once, and it was given in a tone that suggested this man had no issue with Sherlock's appearance on the scene, nor questions about why a consultant worked for the police. It was strangely uplifting to join forces with another emergency services unit. No one was grumbling at him about his unusual presence, or making snide remarks, or complaining because he could spot details that they could not. It was almost, Sherlock considered, as though the fire department appreciated any help they could get.

He made a note to mention this to Lestrade. More gratitude for his invaluable contributions should be given by the police.

He suited up then, ignoring Lestrade's stunned expression as he did so. Second time in a suit for Sherlock, but the first time Lestrade had ever seen him in one. Sherlock put the first time out of his mind – he was still determined not to think about Edinburgh as much as possible. And this was quite a bit different.

He followed the arson specialist – Morrison – into what remained of the building, taking care to listen to the man's instructions about where to step and what to avoid. Sherlock had no desires of being crushed under a pile of debris, and this would probably also make John unhappy. He had even less desire to make John unhappy. John had had enough unhappiness for the year, if not more.

He was glad for the mask they'd given him – the air was still full of ash and soot. He could feel it settling onto his skin, making him itch vaguely. His hair was covered by the suit, as was most of his body, really, except his forehead and the tops of his cheeks. His breath was warm inside the mask, unpleasant, but a preferable alternative to breathing in the ash. The entry way and the beginning of the corridor into the building were still relatively intact, the wood and plaster charred but not completely gone, so that even the colours remained. Dark wood, standard and dirty off-white pain on the plaster. Sooty hand- or fingerprints here and there where people fleeing the building had touched the walls. A cracked mirror with a smoke-blackened bronze frame still hung on one wall, several jagged shards of glass missing, resting in smaller fragments on the burnt wood floor below.

Sherlock cast his eyes up the staircase leading to the second storey. Everything had been shored up so that the investigators could work in relative safety, but it was evident that the front of the building had suffered much less than the back, although, judging from the way it looked outside, the upper fourth storey was completely gone.

The further back they went, the worse it got, and the building looked skeletal, dead, more black and grey than the browns of the wood and the off-white of the paint. Sherlock was for once grateful he'd been forced to wait, to ensure it was safe enough to bring in someone not used to this sort of scene. He kept a sharp eye on Morrison ahead of him, stepping where he stepped, but also cataloguing everything around him. It still smelled, very strongly, of burning wood and paint, and he tried to identify any other odours beneath that. Unfortunately, he thought he could, but it wasn't accelerant – it was the smell of burnt flesh. He focused on sniffing out some hint of accelerant, but could not, at least not yet.

The fire had burnt hot – of course he knew that from personal experience, having felt the heat on his skin despite the coolness of the rain all night. But it was more evident now, with the building surrounding him, and the suited-up arson specialist picking his way carefully through the rubble.

"Down here," Morrison said, and swung himself onto a ladder they'd extended into the cellar, where the stairs had been, only a day before. He glanced up at Sherlock, visible only as patch of dark skin and eyes beneath the suit and mask. "Mind your step getting onto the ladder – we don't need any spills."

Sherlock only nodded, letting Morrison go down fully first, then climbing down himself with nimble grace. He could feel someone holding the ladder as he descended, even though it had been secured, as much as possible, to the floors above and below.

The only reason anything remained of the cellar was that it was done in stone and concrete, not wood. The cellar's inlet, where the stairs had been, was much wider than it should have been, and the entire place was an absolute disaster. Almost everything had been stripped away by the explosion, and there would have been water pouring in had the pipes not been shut off, since the boiler had been sheered away. Sherlock wondered if fire had been tempered at all down here by the influx of water that must have happened when the pipes were severed. Probably not, he decided. The water pouring from the pipes had probably evaporated instantly.

The back wall was the worst; it appeared the fire had been strongest there, which followed, since that also seemed to be where the explosion had been located. He followed Morrison to it. The fire department had set up temporary spotlights so that their people could actually work. There was only one other person down there with them, a woman with brown eyes, pale skin, and freckles, who was collecting samples around the blast site into small sterile bags and labelling them meticulously. She gave Sherlock a nod when Morrison brought him over, but didn't stop working or speak to him, too focused on the job.

"C4, most likely," Morrison said. "Plastic explosive, definitely, could be semtex, but I don't think so. Not a large amount, but it wouldn't need to be."

Sherlock nodded, sniffing the air. He could smell a sweetish tinge past the odours of smoke and ash.

"They used ethyl ether," he commented.

Morrison nodded and the woman glanced up, looking impressed.

"Right," Morrison agreed.

"Not the same accelerant used on the car, but it would be too much of a coincidence for these to be unrelated, not to be done by the same person. And they could be detonated remotely."

Morrison nodded again. Sherlock stepped up to the wall, examining where the small bomb had gone off, then made his way slowly around the cellar – which was smaller than the whole size of the ground floor of the flat, about one third the dimensions. Morrison assisted by turning one set of lights for him. Sherlock moved along the walls, scanning them floor to what remained of their ceilings, but aside from the smell of the accelerant, there was nothing unusual he could pick up.

More unusual than a bomb in a cellar of a flat, of course.

"We won't know much else until we've swept all the flats as much as we can," Morrison said when Sherlock turned back to him. In case more accelerant had been spread, Sherlock considered. Or they found bodies.

He let Morrison guide him back out, happily pulling down his mask when they emerged back onto the street, pulling in a deep breath of fresh air. Lestrade was waiting for him, looking impatient, the little piece of registration plate now in an evidence bag, held loosely in his right fist.

"I'll need to know to whom that car was registered, and information on all of the people who lived in this flat and the buildings on either side."

"You'll get it," Lestrade said, then sighed. "Nothing down there?"

"Other than the fact that someone blew up part of a building and a car? No. Different accelerant used in the cellar, although I can't speculate as to why. Maybe simply because they could."

Lestrade nodded. He looked displeased, but Sherlock found this fascinating. Someone out there had the means to obtain C4 and ethyl ether and use them to detonate a controlled explosion that had wiped out the back half of the building and the upper storey, which meant either they were dealing with a complete amateur with access to restricted materials or an experienced professional. And he had not re-evaluated his assessment that this was not an amateur. Whoever it was had also detonated a car at the same time, either as a distraction or to further remove evidence.

He felt the familiar feeling of excitement as a case began to unravel in front of him, as someone dangerous and intelligent caught his eye, needing to be caught and contained.

"Any ideas?" Lestrade asked.

"Sorry, didn't see anyone last night laughing madly and wearing a placard that read 'I'm the bomber!'" He ignored Lestrade's eye roll. "Get me that information, Lestrade, and I will find you your killer."


	4. Chapter 4

"There will be a man at the door shortly. Open it, greet him as though you know him, let him in. No, shh, shh, no, don't ask questions. Very important that you do this. Precisely this. Yes?"

Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson an encouraging look. She returned it with a puzzled one of her own but nodded.

"All right, dear, if it's important–"

"It is," Sherlock assured her, then kissed her cheek for good measure.

"Upstairs," he said, turning to John, shooing John with his hands. "Upstairs, now, chop, chop."

"Sherlock–" Mrs. Hudson started.

"He's someone you're expecting!" Sherlock hissed at her, grasping the banister halfway up, leaning over at the waist, nodding at her quickly. "You know him!" He paused again. "He's a young man, green eyes, short hair, light brown. Oh, best be quite nice to him also, he'll have a gun. Or several."

Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth to protest but Sherlock was up the stairs, in through the door behind John, shutting it behind him and leaning against it, fingertips splayed on the wood, eyes darting to one side, listening hard.

"Was that necessary?" John asked.

"Shh, shh, John!" Sherlock said, holding up one hand. "Yes, it is. Mycroft, you know."

"It's just gone dusk," John protested. "You told me–"

"Can't be too careful. Best not let my brother get the wrong idea."

At this, John raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips.

"That is a good point," he agreed.

"He'll be tetchy and suspicious right now," Sherlock said, keeping himself against the door, turning his attention away from John. "And he'll have heard about the explosion by now, probably has more details on it than I do at the moment. I'd really rather not have him draw unnecessary conclusions and start baby-sitting us again. Nor do I want to come to the attention of any of these superiors of his. Unless I miss my mark, neither does Sam."

"All right, but-"

"Shh!" Sherlock hissed, spinning himself round so he could press his ear to the door. "He's just outside."

"How can you possibly tell that?"

"Lived here for four years, haven't I?" Sherlock asked. "Now shut up."

He ignored John, focusing on the sounds coming from below, and, after a moment, he heard the faint rapping on the main door. It sounded normal, casual. Good. As though he was expected. Which he was, of course.

Sherlock held his breath.

A moment later, footsteps below in the landing, and the door opening. Sherlock shut his eyes, focusing his concentration on the conversation below. Ignoring John was the hardest part – he was breathing. Not loudly, normally, but it was so easy to be aware of him. Did he know that? He heard John shift balance somewhat – more weight on the right leg, then the left, then right again, Sherlock noted. Antsy.

_Focus_, he told himself.

Mrs. Hudson greeting him, feigning familiarity and delight quite well, actually. _Well done_, he thought, biting his lip without noticing. Sam, replying in return, didn't seem surprised, greeting her just as warmly, wishing her good evening, laughing.

_Much better than last time_, Sherlock noted. Less tension in his voice. Laughter wasn't forced. He'd be carrying himself less rigidly, too. Less worried. Less injured. Good. He needed to know this. Always important to know with whom one was dealing.

Good to know, too, that Sam was doing better.

_Now ask him in!_ Sherlock thought, growing impatient. After a moment, a tread on the floor boards, the door shutting behind Sam, locking again.

Sherlock breathed out.

Footsteps on the stairs, a voice coming toward them, thanking Mrs. Hudson for letting him in. French accent, but subtle, with overtones of something else. British? No, not quite. What? Sam was English. Always had been. But spoke French perfectly, and had been living in France, at least until recently. Not anymore, though. Sherlock tried to pin it down, but Sam had stopped speaking, climbing the last of the stairs.

Sherlock pulled the door open a moment before Sam knocked, so his right hand was still raised in a loose fist, but he didn't look surprised. Pleased, he looked pleased. And he grinned. Fewer shadows, scars were faded or gone, expression more relaxed, less tension in the eyes, although he looked older now – of course, they were all older, not by much, a year and a half, but the whole thing had aged Sam more than he would have otherwise. Shoulders back, down, body held easily, but that was still taking some effort, no one else might have noticed, but it was a conscious act in some respects, keeping calm, keeping confident, as though he'd never been harmed, as though he were anyone else.

His green eyes darted to Sherlock then past him to John, lighting up in greeting.

"Hello, Sam," Sherlock said.

Sam's face relaxed more, and Sherlock grinned.

"Hello, Sherlock, John," Sam said and stepped inside as Sherlock moved back from the door. Sam put down the laptop bag he'd been carrying – heavy, Sherlock noted, so there was a computer inside, but thicker than normal, so something else as well. He swung the door shut, throwing the locks, then embraced Sam warmly.

This time, only the barest of tension in Sam's shoulders.

The last time Sherlock had seen him, Sam had shown up unannounced and the consulting detective had hugged him hello in disbelief, surprise, as if to prove to himself that, yes, his friend was there and quite alive and real. Sam had almost immediately asked him to let go, however, and Sherlock had stepped back smartly, palms held up, grey eyes carefully evaluating the younger man. Had given him physical space, waiting quietly but with a sharp eye, until Sam had reasserted control over himself.

Not this time, however. Sam returned the hug without much difficulty – some, there was some there, Sherlock noted, but under his control.

Sam then shook John's hand, and they pulled each other into the one-armed embrace that men do when they are less certain about the demonstration of affection, but genuinely glad to see one another.

"What have you got for me?" Sherlock demanded then and Sam turned back, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

"Sherlock!" John admonished. "For God's sake, let the man breathe. Sam, come in. Tea?"

"John, no time for that!" Sherlock admonished. "We have a case!"

"You have a case," Sam agreed. "Although it's not why I'm here. And yes, John, tea would be brilliant, thank you."

_Brilliant_, Sherlock noted. But less excited about the tea than last time. Last time, they'd received a card not long before Sam had visited complaining that he couldn't get a decent cuppa in France. Well, he'd said Venice, but he'd been in France. The last time he'd been in their flat, he'd taken tea with something bordering on absolute relief and had held off even sipping it for two minutes after it was ready, just inhaling the scent and letting the steam waft over this face. Relishing the experience, because who knew when the next time he could get a real tea would be?

Not as eager this time, but still more so than he would be if he were used to it again.

And using British slang. Maintaining a weak French accent.

"What do you know about the explosion?" Sherlock demanded. John reproved him from the kitchen, but Sam shrugged off the light coat he'd been wearing and Sherlock took it, hanging it quickly. A coat wasn't necessary in this weather, but it covered the scars at his wrists, on his arms. Sherlock noted them and saw Sam note that in return. Last time, he'd worn a long-sleeved shirt, kept his scarf on. There were no marks on his neck now. The ones on his wrists were still red, the ones on his arms faded to white.

"It's worse where you can't see, believe me."

Shock ground Sherlock to the floor momentarily.

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry."

Sam had not told him what Moriarty had done. Sherlock had wanted to know, since this had been in part because of him, or about him, but Sam had simply refused and Sherlock understood the look on his face. Then he couldn't speak about it without losing control. Now he wouldn't speak about it so as not to dredge up the memories that still clung to the edges of his green eyes, but did not invade them, at least not all of the time.

Sam shook his head. For a moment, there was something else in his green eyes, a coolness, an aloofness, then it faded, but didn't disappear.

_Yves_, Sherlock realized. _That was Yves._

He'd almost forgotten he wasn't speaking with Sam Waters anymore, despite the fact that younger man looked different – gone was his dark hair, replaced with a lighter brown, less distinctive, so that his colouring was no longer startling, no longer something Sherlock would have noted.

He remembered John, high on morphine, making fun of him for checking out Constable Sam Waters.

Two years ago now, Sherlock realized. Two years.

How much had changed.

John came back into the living room, carrying two teas, and passed one off to Sam. Sherlock's eyes slid back to his husband.

And how much had not.

"Thank you," Sam said, accepting the tea and sipping it without hesitation – no appreciation this time. John passed the other mug to Sherlock, who took it absently as Sam picked up his laptop bag, then went back into the kitchen to fetch his own tea.

"I don't know anything about the explosion, so I'll save you some time right now," he said as John came back into the living room. Sherlock waved Sam into a chair and the younger man sat down, resting his mug on the table beside him, placing the case on his knees. "I was here for another reason altogether."

"They haven't reassigned you here, then?" John asked, sitting on the couch. Sherlock perched beside him and John leaned forward somewhat, elbows resting on his knees, his mug held in both hands. "Are you still in France?"

"Dublin," Sherlock and Sam said at the same time, and both Sam and John looked at Sherlock in surprise.

"Your French accent – very good, by the way – isn't strong enough for you to be living France as your French self, unless you're not maintaining it for our benefit, but if that were the case, you'd drop it altogether, so you keep it up for consistency, to keep from slipping up. But you're still using British slang – brilliant – and you are less interested in your tea than last time, indicating you now live somewhere where it's readily available, but not so long as to be completely used to it again, you aren't taking it for granted, not yet. But you're still rolling your ars, from the back of the throat, like a proper French speaker, so in a place where it may not be as noticeable. They'd hardly send you back to London, given the number of police officers you know here, nor, I think, would then send you anywhere in the UK, but I'm willing to be wrong on that point. However, Dublin is a large and cosmopolitan city, so your accent wouldn't be unusual there, and your colouring, particularly your eyes, is less likely to stand out. Certainly you aren't living any farther south in Europe, given that your skin is precisely the same colour as it was when you were working here, so you're in a place with a similar climate, both in terms of temperature and average sunlight. You've been there approximately seven weeks, although I suspect your persona has been there a lot longer, correct?"

Sam's lips twitched and he picked up his tea again.

"Eight weeks. Well done," he said. "Please don't disappoint me by telling me you learned all of that from your brother."

"I don't speak to my brother," Sherlock replied coolly. He noted John shifting somewhat beside him – the whole situation with Mycroft made John uneasy, in a number of ways. He was upset that Sherlock didn't get on with his brother, but also unwilling to push it, because he himself did not particularly want Mycroft in their lives. He regretted that Mycroft was the way he was, and wished the brothers had a better relationship but was reluctant to see that happen.

Sherlock wished John would just pick one way of viewing the situation and stick with it.

"I thought not," Sam agreed. "That's why I'm here."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, suddenly suspicious.

"You've not joined forces with him, have you?"

Sam arched an eyebrow.

"I've only ever spoken to him once, at your request. But I have kept my word and there are people monitoring him. I know what happened in Edinburgh."

"I am not interested in discussing Edinburgh," Sherlock said flatly. He pushed himself to his feet and moved away from the couch, holding his tea mug in his hand, sipping from it absently, as Sam unzipped the laptop bag and pulled a file from it.

"I have information you need," Sam said. "That's all."

"Keep it," Sherlock replied. "What were you doing at the explosion last night?"

Sam sighed and cast a look at John, then passed the manila folder across the room. The doctor reached out and took it, Sherlock's eyes following his husband's movements. John settled back and flipped it open, reading quickly.

The alarm that lit his brown eyes concerned Sherlock immediately but he kept it to himself. Let Mycroft deal with Mycroft. He wanted nothing to do with his brother.

"Sherlock, someone murdered Marco De Luca," John said, looking up again.

This made Sherlock pause.

"Six days ago," Sam confirmed. "Assassinated from a distance. Sniper rifle. I can't tell you how riled up Interpol is about that – no trace of the assassin."

"No," Sherlock said. "There wouldn't be." Then he snapped his grey eyes back to Sam, expression cold. "Who have you told?"

"No one," Sam said simply. "My superiors know nothing about your brother's connection to De Luca. Only myself and one field agent, the one who was keeping an eye out the day Mycroft went to Bart's to see you, know what he had you working on."

"Do you trust this person?"

"To do his job, I do," Sam said. Sherlock noted the distinction. "And his loyalty, yes."

"What do you wish me to do with this information?" Sherlock asked. John looked displeased, but Sherlock ignored this. This was getting tedious – as happy as he was to see Sam, he had a case to work on. And questions of his own.

"Nothing," Sam replied. "I just want you to know. And Mycroft certainly won't be the one to tell you."

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed coolly. There was an abundant amount of information Mycroft refused to share with him. He could start with the existence of David altogether, and work his way down from there. "Thank you. What about last night?"

"What about it?" Sam asked.

"Hardly a coincidence that you just happened to be in the area," Sherlock replied. He was beginning to feel fidgety – he wanted to work. Sam could help with that. Interpol should have more information on the people who had been living in the building than the police did. Perhaps one of them was even on an Interpol watch list – he should be so lucky.

"No," Sam agreed. "Although the bomb and my presence were. What do you imagine, that I set it off?"

"Did you?"

Sam stared at him hard and Sherlock saw clear through all four layers – a rare event, with Sam.

"My job involves enforcing the law, _not_ circumventing it and blowing people up," he snapped. "I was on my way here, to drop the phone in your mail slot so I could contact you about that," he nodded at the file that John was still holding. The doctor was looking somewhat stunned about all of this, Sherlock noted. Really, did this sort of thing continue to surprise him?

"Why not just drop the file? Why come see us?"

"Sorry? You do have a landlady who could access your mail. And it is nice to actually see friends again, you know."

This stopped Sherlock up a moment. John gave him one of those pointed looks that he so favoured when he wanted Sherlock to stop and think a moment about being human, not about the case.

But there was a case, and it was pressing, since a number of people were dead.

"Since you're here, you can have a look at the files for the people already suspected dead in the blast," Sherlock said. "The police have had no luck identifying a culprit."

"Nor have you, then, I take it?" Sam asked.

Sherlock turned his head and fixed Sam with a glare and was further annoyed when John swallowed on a snicker, and not very effectively.

"No," he replied.

"I'm not doing field work," Sam said. "I don't do cases anymore."

"Yes, and you hate that," Sherlock replied. "It chafes at you because you are not a man who's content to sit behind a desk and supervise people when there is work to be done and suspects to be apprehended. You want to go back into the field, despite it all. Every single day. It must drive you mad."

"Some days," Sam agreed. "And no, I am not entirely content to sit behind a desk, but I am also recovering from PTSD and I understand that I'd be a liability in the field."

"Liability!" Sherlock snapped. "Says the man who has been undercover since he was twenty! Who is Sam Waters if not a field agent?"

"Sam Waters is dead," Sam replied wearily. Sherlock threw up his hands in disgust, nearly spilling his tea.

"Have a go at the files, Sam. Give me something from Interpol I cannot get from the police, or we will stall out now and at least seven people will be dead without any hope of us tracking down the murderer."

"Sherlock," John said in a warning tone and Sherlock glanced back, seeing the look in John's eyes telling him not to push Sam, but he ignored it. When else would he have this opportunity to get someone in Interpol – someone quite well connected in Interpol – to provide him with information?

"Somehow, I doubt that would be the case if you're on the investigation," Sam sighed. "But all right, fine. I'm back to Dublin tomorrow anyway, so don't expect to be able to ring me up and have me assist you on this."

"I've already got a partner," Sherlock sniffed. Sam looked at John, raising his eyebrows, as if to ask if Sherlock was always like this. Sherlock deliberately did not look at John's silent response. "You're just an outside opinion."

"Give me the files," Sam said, gesturing with his right hand. Less stiffness in his right arm and shoulder – good. Sherlock snagged his laptop and called up all of the police files Lestrade had sent over on the known victims so far, then passed the computer off to Sam.

He paced as Sam read through them, and John pushed himself to his feet, shaking his head.

"This is not a good idea," the doctor murmured.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked. "Interpol is a law enforcement agency. We're not breaking any laws in asking for their assistance, John. The police and the fire department are not making headway, so why should we be constrained by their limitations? We have resources they don't have, why not use them?"

John pursed his lips unhappily, but shook his head.

"I don't like it," he said. "None of this."

"Nor do I," Sam agreed from the other side of the room and both the detective and doctor looked over, but he was not precisely speaking about the same thing. He had the laptop propped on the arm of the chair, turned to face them, a file with a woman's photograph displayed on the screen.

"It appears I was wrong when I said I wasn't here about the bombing. How much do you know about the agents who arrested Alessandra De Luca?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said promptly. "Nor do I wish to."

"Well, you're about to. The woman who lived in the flat above the bomb was one of the main undercover agents who infiltrated Alessandra De Luca's circle. Last week, someone assassinated Marco De Luca and this week, someone who works for your brother and lives close to you – keeping tabs on you, I'm sure – is killed. I'd say I'm not back in Dublin tomorrow. And that, no matter how much you may not want to be involved in this, I think you just got pulled into it."


	5. Chapter 5

"Did anyone find a fire-proof safe in any of the burnt out flats?"

"Sorry?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock almost growled with frustration, ignoring John and Sam watching him, pacing with his mobile held in his right hand, on speaker. Sam was looking somewhat alarmed, but as long as he kept silent, he would be fine.

"Were there any fire-proof safes recovered from any of the burnt out flats?" Sherlock repeated sharply.

"Let me check – just a moment – no reports of that, no. But they haven't finished going through the whole scene."

"The car, what about the car?"

"Sherlock, nothing was in the car."

"Did you check the boot?"

"Of course we checked the boot!"

"Where's the car now?" Sherlock demanded.

"Sherlock–"

"Where is the car now?" Sherlock repeated, snapping out each word.

"Evidence impound," Lestrade sighed, sounding necessarily put-out in Sherlock's opinion.

"Good. Ring over immediately and tell them not to touch it anymore. Especially if Anderson is involved in any way. Are you listening to me? No one touches anything!"

"What's so important about the car?"

"Not the car itself, what it may be hiding. Meet me there in as little time as you can. Must dash."

"But–"

"Now!" Sherlock snapped and rung off, turning back to John and Sam, who were watching him with varying degrees of befuddlement. Sam's was due in part, Sherlock knew, to hearing his former boss for the first time since Sam had officially died.

"Oh, it's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock demanded. "The car had to be burnt for some reason, so whoever the bomber was – Alessandra or one of her people – suspected something was being kept in it. But my brother wouldn't employ stupid people, so if there was something that Elizabeth Heath was storing in her car, it wouldn't be easily found, and it would be protected. John, where are my keys? I need to go down to evidence impound right now. Whatever she had, we need to get it."

He held up one hand as John rose, shaking his head.

"I need you to stay here this time. I may need to talk to Sam and I can't work while holding the phone; I'll need to be on speaker. And Lestrade is highly likely to recognize his voice."

John looked as though he may protest but then pursed his lips and thought better of it, brown eyes dark and displeased. But he nodded.

"They're on the table beside the door," he sighed.

"Brilliant. I'll be back."

"Take the phone I gave you!" Sam snapped and Sherlock turned back to him, grey eyes quizzical and evaluating. "If you want me to help you out, you need to do that."

For a moment, Sherlock considered refusing out of inborn obstinacy, but saw the warning look in Sam's eyes, and probably Yves' eyes as well, and the pointed glance that John shot him.

"Right," he said, snatching it up and then gathering his keys. "I'll be in touch. Sam, do something about my brother not getting involved, would you? It will make this much easier to sort out."

"I'll do what I can," Sam said as Sherlock unbolted the door. "No guarantees – I'm going to get shit for this as it is, you can believe that."

"Yes," Sherlock said, pulling open the door. "But you're back in the game. Isn't it fun?"

He flashed them a grin and was gone.

* * *

Sherlock stopped haranguing the on-duty admissions officer when Lestrade arrived, looking harried and somewhat panicked, as though, without him there, Sherlock may have taken over the entire evidence impound area. Sherlock had considered this, but having arrived only a minute before, had yet to devise a means to do so. Now it was unnecessary.

"Lestrade," he greeted perfunctorily, "Nice to you to show up. Do try to practice the promptness some, will you? And perhaps you can tell Constable – Riley here that I am to be admitted?"

Lestrade gave Sherlock a warning look laced with weariness and resignation that Sherlock completely ignored. There were more pressing matters. He could see the car in the restricted area, which was thankfully not being worked on at the moment, although several techs were hanging about, probably wondering what was going on, as though they were important enough to merit an explanation.

"We're both going in," Lestrade sighed, flashing his badge and then logging them into the evidence area. "Sherlock, you'll have to suit up."

"Once is enough," Sherlock replied, again foregoing any mention of Edinburgh. The less Lestrade knew, the better he'd sleep, so really, he ought to thank Sherlock. Except, of course, he couldn't, because that would require explanation as to why. So the best option was to keep him off balanced enough. "I'll take a mask, though."

"Well, at least there's that," Lestrade muttered. Sherlock ignored him, casting his eyes about the room – it was a garage, with eleven currently impounded vehicles associated with forensics investigations, all in various stages of disrepair, ranging from the vehicle that had burnt on Baker Street, little more than a shell, to a car that, upon first glance, looked undamaged, but Sherlock could see the rear driver's side door open, and faint blood splatter on the inner surface.

He stopped a moment, unaccustomed shock coursing through him. This would have been where they'd taken the vehicles from his crash, he realized.

He blinked that away, along with the irritation of distraction – that had been two and a half years ago. This was now. No time for unpleasant reminiscing. Unfortunately, he realized, Moriarty's memory was closer to the surface with Sam's presence.

He snapped on a pair of gloves and eyed the techs who were eyeing him in return, looking displeased at the sterile suit he wasn't wearing, and waiting for some kind of instruction.

"I need a knife," Sherlock said.

"What?" Lestrade demanded.

"A knife, Lestrade, I need a knife! Not that uncommon as an implement, I suspect! A box cutter? Something that can cut through thick plastic? Right now!"

Someone actually listened and Sherlock headed toward the car, reaching out to grasp the blade by the handle as it was passed to him.

The hatch to the boot had been fully removed, thankfully, although there wasn't much left to the boot at all, as with the rest of the car. Under the glare of the high fluorescent lights, it did not look much better than it had on the street in natural light. Starker, actually, and smelled more strongly of petrol, given the closed surroundings. He wished he had an oxygen mask, not just a particles mask. It was an extremely unpleasant smell.

Sherlock leaned over the boot, eyes darting across the surface – no carpeting left, although the structure was mostly still intact, but melted and distorted. He switched the knife to his left hand and braced himself carefully with the same hand, ensuring that no bare skin touched the car's frame anywhere, and began tapping the interior of the boot with a light fist.

"We've pulled out what was left of the spare," the tech who had passed him the knife said.

"Brilliant, always good to know you can do your job while accomplishing nothing whatsoever. That isn't what I'm looking for. Lestrade, everyone needs to leave but you."

"Sherlock–"

Sherlock straightened suddenly and spun.

"Do you want me to do this, or not?" he snapped. "You called me to the scene and I am now telling you what needs to happen for this investigation to progress! Everyone out!"

There were mutters and dark looks which he ignored, shooting a glare at Lestrade, who held his gaze a moment, then relented, as Sherlock knew he would. Two seconds early, as well. He must be getting better at the pointed look. He should remember to send Tricia an honorarium for teaching how to improve upon it.

"Everyone take fifteen," Lestrade sighed, waving his hands. "Let's go, come on."

Sherlock turned back as they were filtering out and resumed his search of the boot, until he found precisely was he was looking for – a small hollow that resounded dully beneath his fist.

He switched the knife hands and began to cut through the plastic.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Lestrade demanded.

"Cutting," Sherlock said. "What did you think I'd do with a knife? Let me work."

Lestrade crossed the room, footsteps echoing on the oil-stained concrete, to stand by him, glowering, but Sherlock paid him no attention. He managed to saw two jagged edges then peel the plastic back with some effort.

There was something inside, low, rectangular, obviously damaged by the heat, but not as badly as the rest of the chair.

Sherlock's eyes glinted.

"How the bloody hell did you know?" Lestrade demanded, uncrossing his arms.

Sherlock ignored him, sawing another edge until he could pull the plastic back far enough to free the case.

"Hold this!" he said to Lestrade, setting the knife aside, and the DI grasped the plastic, hauling it back. Sherlock eased his hands into the small opening, taking care not to snag his wrists on the plastic or any exposed metal, and worked the case out. Lestrade dropped the makeshift trap door as soon as Sherlock had freed the case.

"What is it?" he demanded.

"Fire-proof safe," Sherlock replied.

"Are you going to tell me how the hell you knew it was there?"

"No," Sherlock said, crossing to a nearby workbench, clearing a space and setting it down. "Shut up, Lestrade, I need to figure out how to open it."

He pulled out his phone and rang John's number. A moment later, John answered, and Sherlock dismissed the flash of irritation he felt not having John on the scene with him. He didn't have time to miss his husband, although part of him insisted on doing so nonetheless.

"Found it," he said without preamble. "In the boot. How do I open it?"

Lestrade was moving to join him, frowning.

"Why would John know that?" he asked.

"He was in the army, wasn't he?" Sherlock said by way of reply, keeping his tone deliberately vague, as though that was a good enough explanation and he wasn't really paying attention.

"Describe it."

"Black, not from the fire, somewhat fire damaged on the outside, but intact, so I think the contents are safe. Approximately thirty centimetres by twenty by twenty."

There was a pause as John relayed the information, and Lestrade gave Sherlock a puzzled look. John appeared to be bright enough to ensure no sound was coming through, but the delay was catching the DI's attention.

"What are the locks like?"

"Partially melted."

Another pause, then Sherlock kept his expression neutral when Sam came on the line, his French accent thicker than it had been at the flat, his voice pitched somewhat lower. Sherlock was impressed, but resisted the impulse to raise his eyebrows.

"What brand?" Sam asked.

"Who the hell is that?" Lestrade asked.

"Consultant," Sherlock replied.

"_You're_ a consultant!"

"And he's my consultant. His references are impeccable, believe me. I think you'd agree, if you met him. Yves, it's a Halliburton."

"You'll 'ave to use a small detonation, then."

Lestrade gave Sherlock an incredulous look, but Sherlock ignored him, nodding at the phone.

"Can you do that?" he enquired.

"I am not a walking munitions expert, Sherlock," Sam snapped back. "You must 'ave labs for that, _oui_?"

"We're on our way right now," Sherlock said, snapping up the case, and then his phone, ringing off. He started to walk away, then paused, turning back. "Fancy joining me, or were you planning on hanging about here all night?"

* * *

"Do you plan on telling me what's going on?" Lestrade demanded after they'd surrendered the case to a munitions expert, Sherlock rather reluctantly, displeased that he was not being allowed to observe. The knowledge could come in quite handy, although, he suspected, he could also find it online. Learning it that way would also give him the benefit of Lestrade not knowing that Sherlock knew how to do this. He made a mental note to look this up – in case it was ever necessary to do something like this again. One never knew.

"No," Sherlock said vaguely.

"Sherlock! This _is_ my case!"

"And you asked me to work it."

"Which does not mean that you get to withhold information or hire outside people. And since when do you have a new partner?"

"I told you, he's not my partner, he's a consultant. _John_ is my partner. Do try to keep it straight. It's not that complicated. This man is an expert in his field. Also, I did not hire him. He's not being paid."

"Nor are you, for reasons I still don't understand, because I would pay you, you know, but that's irrelevant. If I pull you in on a case, I need you to tell me what the bloody hell is going on with that case. I can't keep a decent handle on – well on anything, if you're mucking about, hiring on people I don't know, and from other countries at that!"

"He _is_ an EU citizen," Sherlock said coolly. "He's perfectly entitled to be working in England. And, as he's not being paid, there are no tax issues."

"I'm not bloody concerned with tax issues! I'm concerned with not knowing what's happening on my own case!"

"You're a boss, that's as it should be, isn't it?" Sherlock enquired. Then he sighed and rolled his eyes at Lestrade's blazing blue-eyed expression. "All right, all right. Shall I tell you? You'll wish I hadn't, I can assure you."

"Because as a DI, I never hear anything unpleasant," Lestrade said, crossing his arms and gesturing vaguely with his right hand. "It isn't what I want to hear, it's what I need to hear."

"All right," Sherlock said again. "You are investigating the bombing that caused the deaths of at least seven people late last night, as well as a connected car bomb that seemed to destroy no property, nor did it kill anyone. Have you looked into the identities of the flat victims yet?"

"I have people working on it, but I haven't got very far into it myself, not yet."

Sherlock nodded.

"Well, the man you insist on saying I've hired is an Interpol agent." He ignored Lestrade's shock at this, the older man uncrossing his arms in surprise, shoulders tensing, drawing back slightly. "He recognized one of the victims, the one who owned that car, Elizabeth Heath, as a government agent here in England. Not an Interpol agent, different agency, I don't know which one." The last was a lie, but Sherlock didn't need to clarify, not on that point.

"She was recently, as in, within the last seven months, involved in the arrest of a well-connected international drugs smuggler, Alessandra De Luca, who was recently returned from England to Italy, to her grandfather, Marco De Luca, the head of this drugs syndicate, in exchange for an English hostage taken by De Luca. Last week, Marco De Luca was assassinated in Italy by an unidentified sniper. This week, his granddaughter blows up the flat of one of the agents who arrested her. _That's_ your case, Lestrade. Happy?"

Lestrade stared at him for almost a full minute, disbelief warring with the instinct to catch up and process all of the facts. Sherlock wondered at how other people could be so slow at this – how did anything get accomplished in a timely manner?

"And this Interpol agent you're hired – sorry, not hired, who's consulting for you, he's working on this?"

"Yes," Sherlock said simply. It had the benefit of now being true, even if Sam hadn't intended to be working on it, and at the same time, it was not at all entirely accurate. Best he not highlight his own involvement, nor his brother's. It would only complicate matters.

"So am I to expect a knock on my office door and an order to stand down from Interpol?"

"Unlikely. It would be best for the police to keep up the investigation – the less it looks as though Interpol is involved, the better for tracking De Luca. But I need whatever's on Heath's notebook computer to point me to De Luca herself."

Lestrade looked startled again.

"How did you know what was in the safe?" he asked.

Honestly, Sherlock despaired sometimes, he really did. He pointed through the glass at the tech who was pulling out a small black notebook from the now-opened safe, retrieving it carefully, then turning to the double-panned, bulletproof window to hold it up for the detective and the DI to see.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock climbed the stairs quietly, uncharacteristically, but at this hour, Mrs. Hudson would be asleep, and there were suspiciously few sounds coming from the upper flat. He cocked an ear, but could not hear the sound of voices, nor the murmur of the telly.

To be fair, it had already gone midnight, what with one thing and another, then arguing with Lestrade into letting him take Heath's laptop home. The DI had been obstinate about the chain of custody, but Sherlock had overridden this by pointing out that he was officially working on the case, and so could claim responsibility for evidence. Lestrade was typically stubborn, but had also just as typically relented.

It was tiresome that precious time had been wasted in arguing.

Sherlock unlocked the door and eased it inward, noting immediately that John wasn't in the living room anymore – wasn't in evidence at all. Sam was still there, but slumped in John's chair, his head pillowed on one arm, one leg drawn up, the other stretched out in front of him.

He had, Sherlock noticed immediately, his gun out and on the table beside him, loaded, but with the safety on. And his phone resting on the arm of the chair, face up.

Sam started awake when Sherlock shut and relocked the door, instinctively reaching out, but going for his mobile rather than his weapon. Sherlock saw something stripped away in Sam's eyes – all of the defences he'd built around his aliases, he realized. There were no barriers there, just a sharp and sudden fear, bordering on panic. Without thinking, Sam's hand wrapped around his phone and he picked it up, turning it on and looking for something.

There was a frozen moment for the Interpol agent in which Sherlock held himself very still, then Sam's expression shifted somewhat, as though he were remembering something, and recognition coloured his green eyes and smoothed over the taut expression on his face.

Then he breathed out and forced himself to relax before sitting up fully, nodding at the phone as though it had said something to him, and put it aside.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Where's John?" he asked.

Sam nodded toward the closed bedroom door.

"Sleeping. I'm surprised he bothered going into work today."

"That makes two of us. We do have a guest bedroom, you know."

"He offered. I don't do well with unfamiliar bedrooms."

"Then where are you staying?" Sherlock asked. "Unless you have a flat here, too?"

"No, hotel," Sam replied.

"This doesn't qualify as unfamiliar?"

"As impersonal," Sam clarified. "Don't point out that the distinction is fuzzy – I've trained myself very well to believe in it. What have you got?"

"What's on the phone?" Sherlock asked instead of replying. Sam gave him a long look, then sighed, extending the phone with obvious reluctance to the detective, who crossed the floor to take it.

On the screen, a photograph of James Moriarty's corpse, chest, shoulders and head only, very clearly and neatly showing the bullet wound in his forehead that had killed him.

"Bit grim, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the photo. It had undoubtedly been taken in the morgue, so probably by Veronique, Sherlock judged. Moriarty still had the same surprised expression on his face that he'd died with, but his eyes had been closed and he had the pale, almost blue, pallor of death.

"Normally I'd agree with you," Sam agreed. "Sometimes, in the middle of the night, it's nice to know."

"You don't remember him being shot," Sherlock observed, passing the phone back. Sam stood and took it, shaking his head.

"No, don't remember much from the bridge," he admitted. "Of all the things that happened that day, it strikes me as unfair that I don't remember that." He held the phone up, gesturing with it absently. "Everything else, I could do without remembering at all."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, watching Sam's eyes, that were looking past him, distant.

"What did he do to you?"

Sam's eyes snapped back.

"He raped me. You know that. Do you want details? I could give them to you, but believe me, someone with your intelligence and imagination would only fill in the gaps all too well. It's bad enough to remember what I do. You don't need to know, and you don't need to deduce what I can't recall."

"My intelligence and imagination can come up with some very disturbing suggestions," Sherlock replied coolly.

"Not as bad as the reality. Believe me," Sam retorted. "Why do you need to know? Is this some sort of responsibility thing? Because it had nothing to do with you. In the same way it had nothing to do with me. There is no fault, here," he said, gesturing to Sherlock and then to himself. "I've known that the whole time, even when it was impossible to believe."

"I am your friend," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yes, and right now, being my friend entails me deciding what and when to tell you. Look, it's still – I've been pressed to talk about it, to recount it – re_live_ it too many times. Sometimes, that hurts more. Veronique made me tell her, and I'm glad she did, even though I didn't want to, but I _need _to be able to make this choice on my own. This has to be something I control, since Moriarty didn't give me any."

Sherlock paused, displeased, but nodded.

"Why did they move you?" he asked instead. "Why not keep you here? Why change your identity?"

"To keep me safe – you _know_ Moriarty didn't work alone. He had a network we've only begun to tap. There was – is – still a chance that his people are still after me. When he first met me, in Liverpool, I threw a wrench in his skin trading business. He wasn't the only person involved in that, not by a long shot. A lot of people make a lot of money from that depravity. And I'm still an Interpol agent. It makes me a target."

Sam paused, drawing a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

"But yes, I wish now they'd kept me here, as grateful as I was at the time that no one in the hospital knew me. Because this didn't happen to Yves Bessette, you understand? This happened to Sam Waters, who died. They effectively imposed a dissociative disorder on me, which I've had to fight against, along with just the regular fighting. They were doing what they thought was best at the time, and it kept me alive, but it's made it more difficult in some respects. _I_ will always be a rape victim, but my professional identity might not be."

Sherlock put the laptop he'd been carrying down, noting Sam follow the movement, acknowledging the presence of evidence for the first time.

"And what else are you, Sam?" Sherlock asked, crossing his arms.

"Sorry?" Sam asked, giving him a puzzled look.

"With whom am I dealing right now?" Sherlock enquired. "What are your motivations? I work with John, and I trust John. I've worked with Sam Waters, and I trust Sam Waters. Whoever you are right now, can I trust you about this?"

Sam glanced at the laptop then back, green eyes bright.

"Yes," he said simply. Sherlock held his gaze, then nodded.

"Good," he said and sat down, opening the small notebook and powering it on. "This is what Heath was hiding in her car, in the safe. Can I continue to reach you on the phone you gave me?"

Sam looked surprised.

"Of course," he said.

"Then I suggest you go back to your hotel and try and get some sleep. Unless you've somehow become more skilled at breaking through my brother's computer security than I am. This may take awhile. And I'll need to concentrate."

Sam gave him a pensive look for a moment, then nodded.

"All right," he agreed. "Ring me if you need anything."

"I'll be sure to," Sherlock agreed. "I'm certain your Interpol access will come in handy, eventually. Unless, of course, you're concerned with fallout from your superiors, although help from you would probably speed this along greatly."

"You'd be amazed at how much leeway you're given when you're half the reason James Moriarty is dead," Sam said dryly. "And they'll probably just have Veronique ring me and hang me out to dry. It's always more effective when she tears into me."

Sherlock smirked.

"Can you handle that?" he enquired.

"I've known Veronique a long time, Sherlock. I've developed a surprising immunity. Be careful what you get into here. I can only give you so much help or protection."

"Protection is the least of my worries," Sherlock replied flatly as Sam gathered up his belongings. "I'll ring you in the morning, if not before."

"Good night, then," Sam said, unbolting the door and shouldering his bag, looking weary. Sherlock wondered how much he did sleep, and how well he slept when he was able to.

"Good night, Sam," Sherlock replied and relocked the door after he heard the lower door shut behind the agent, then returned to Heath's laptop, settling himself onto the couch, and bending his concentration to the task of breaking into her computer.

* * *

An hour later, he had moved to the table, spreading out a map of the city, folding it down to show only the central areas of London. John kept him well stocked in street maps, which were usually ruined quite quickly, as Sherlock wrote all over them, scribbling notes, circling locations, tracing routes. He held a pen in his right hand now, alternately pouring over the map and the information on the laptop.

Cracking Heath's security access had not been difficult – Sherlock had years of experience breaking into his brother's systems. If Mycroft had trained Heath, which Sherlock strongly suspected he had, then she had learned her system security from him. It had held up against him for all of seven minutes, which was still fairly impressive. He made a note to tell John, whose laptop he had broken into within thirty seconds the first time he'd tried.

A great deal of the information on the laptop seemed irrelevant to the case, to Alessandra De Luca, at least on the surface, but it was difficult to tell. Sherlock had found a number of files that were composed solely of addresses, or numbers and letters, or latitude and longitude coordinates. Heath hadn't recorded any of this in code, but in her own shorthand, which was actually worse. A code should have a key, but a personal shorthand could be developed with a number of keys, all of which would be known only to Heath, since she'd be the one who needed to read them.

Although, presumably, she'd want this to be comprehensible to her boss – to Mycroft – which meant it should be understandable to Sherlock, who knew how his brother thought.

He had circled the obvious addresses, and the coordinates that pertained to London, of which there were only two, which seemed unrelated. The combinations of letters and numbers were confusing – and he suspected they may not be related. Airport gates? If so, at which airport? Heathrow? Gatwick? Perhaps an airport not in England altogether. Perhaps not even an airport.

The note "MV GUC sp. 2" confused him the most. He wrote it out himself, trying to puzzle out what it meant, then tapped his pen absently on the map for a moment. He put the pen to his lips, eyes scanning the map, trying to spot some pattern in the addresses and coordinates, but he suspected they weren't all connected, and until he could filter out those that were not, he would not see the association. It was unlikely that Heath had been working on only one thing for his brother – more probable she had several assignments, including him in all likelihood. Sherlock made another mental note, but this one to have some words with his brother about the surveillance he insisted on maintaining. Particularly if it were going to lead to bombs being set near his flat, killing innocent people as well as their intended target.

He thought about Sam suddenly, and was about to dismiss it – he didn't need the agent's assistance at the moment, but then paused, listening to himself. Sherlock looked up, narrowing his grey eyes, not really seeing the darkened flat around him.

This wasn't about Sam. His brain was trying to make a connection. He drew a deep breath, holding himself still, not forcing the train of thought, letting it go where it needed to take him. He paused, then pushed himself abruptly away from the table, going into the kitchen and stopping in front of the fridge, looking at it carefully. There were a handful of magnets on it, some that had turned up inexplicably, some Sherlock had bought, including one of the Scottish thistle, which he'd purchased at a souvenir shop in Edinburgh.

Another souvenir magnet, a Union Jack, was holding up a photograph of John and Josephine next to the Thames, grinning and squinting in the sunlight. Sherlock plucked the magnet off of the fridge, securing the picture with another one, and considered it.

Sam. The postcard from Venice. The first one they'd got from him, which Sherlock had burnt to prevent Mycroft from knowing Sam was still alive – this had turned out to be unnecessary. Sherlock turned his head slowly back to look at the map he could see spread on the table, twirling the magnet absently between his fingers.

"Ah," he said softly then and stuck the magnet back on the fridge, heading back to the table and leaning over the map again, bracing his left arm on one side of it, snatching up his pen and tracing his eyes over the paper. He found what he was looking for after a moment and circled it with a triumphant grin, writing "MV GUC sp. 2" next to it and underlining it.

Then he grabbed his keys, his phone – and the one Sam had given him – gloves, and a light jacket against the chill that had worked its way into the night air, and slipped out of the flat, taking care to lock the door softly so as not to disturb John. He didn't prefer going alone, but he doubted his ability to wake his husband effectively and quickly at the moment, or how helpful John would be operating on so little sleep. It seemed to affect the doctor more than it affected Sherlock himself, which was baffling and often tedious, but he was not about to contend with it right now.

Outside, he had to walk down the block for a few minutes to get far enough away from the still cordoned off crime-scene before he was able to hail a cab, having to give one up to someone else who had arrived before him, some party goer, most likely. When he finally secured a cab, Sherlock hopped into the back of the car and leaned forward.

"Grand Union Canal in Maida Vale," he said.


	7. Chapter 7

The cab dropped him off in Maida Vale near the Grand Union Canal, right in the heart of Little Venice. Sherlock glanced about as he got out, the but the area was fairly deserted, quiet and still. The sound of the cab faded away down the road and Sherlock oriented himself, evaluating either side of the canal in front of him.

Moonlight and lamplight glinted off the canal waters, creating broken lines of illumination on the reflective surface. The waters themselves seemed black, deep and fathomless, but confined between the canal walls. Trees lined either side of the canal, stretching into the darkness and the lamplight, creating skeletal shadows whose leaves rattled in the breeze, barely audible over the sound of the city around him, the murmur of traffic, the distant cry of sirens, the faint rumble of aeroplanes passing over, headed to or from Heathrow, or past England altogether. Here and there, Sherlock could hear voices on the breeze, sometimes louder if someone laughed or shouted.

He headed up along one side of the canal, slipping his hands into his pockets, keeping his footfalls soft. The waters lapped gently against the canal walls and the boats moored on either side, echoing the sigh of the breeze in the branches above his head. Sherlock kept a sharp eye out, but he seemed to be the only person in the area at the moment, enjoying the odd sensation. There were lights on inside the boats here and there – some of them were houseboats with occupants still up and about despite the late hour. Sherlock passed those by, ambling apparently idly along the walk, keeping an eye on the docking numbers.

When he found slip two, he walked past it, then turned to the canal, appearing to consider the view, the water, while quickly evaluating the small houseboat that bobbed gently in the darkness. It was unlit and he could see no indications anyone was inside, although it may just mean that the occupant was sleeping.

He wondered why this had come to Heath's attention.

Sherlock walked away, strolling slowly, then turned around again, walking back and descending the short staircase to the slip, crossing the short boardwalk that separated the boat from the shore, pulling on his gloves as he did so. He made his way to the door, then along the side of the house, pausing to listen intently once in awhile, but he could hear nothing – not even the sound of someone breathing inside. Most of the windows were open, letting in the summer night's breeze, which was tinged with the scent of cool waters.

Sherlock kept himself low, in the shadows. Moving silently was not difficult – whoever lived here did not keep much outside the windows, other than a few planters, which were easily avoided because they created more shadows to alert him as to their presence. The scent of marigolds mingled with the fresh air.

But Sherlock stopped up suddenly, flaring his nostrils, inhaling carefully and deeply.

There was something else in the air at the moment, right beneath another open window. He sniffed again, making sure.

Yes, it smelled of blood and gunpowder.

He stood, back against the wall, and tested the screen. It stuck firm, so he faced it fully, running his fingers along the edges, then prying it slowly and carefully from its frame when he found its weak spot. It resisted, but he worked out slowly, then set it down flush on the ground, listening carefully to the emptiness inside.

If there was someone in there, he or she had to be unconscious or recently dead. There was no noise, and no lack of noise that suggested someone keeping quiet.

Sherlock swung himself in, dropping into a crouch almost immediately, and listened again. Nothing. He appeared to be in a bedroom – enough light was coming in from the city and the moon for him to see that. There was a large bed against the far wall, framed on either side by low bedside tables. A wardrobe was on the wall next to him, tall and stained dark, casting a long shadow. There was a desk just on the other side of the window, with a small chair pushed away from it. The bed was made, and no one appeared to be on it. Sherlock had the sense the room was abandoned, but this is where the smells of blood and gunpowder were coming from.

He needed more light with which to see, however, and he didn't want to risk turning on the bedroom light, lest someone note it. He crept into the hallway, letting his eyes adjust, and walked along it slowly, opening the doors to the other rooms, then closing them again until he found the loo, two doors down from the bedroom on the other side of the corridor. He checked for a window in this room, please that it didn't have one, and flipped on the light.

It cast faint illumination down the hall and into the bedroom, enough for him to see the blood splatter on the walls that suggested someone had been shot in the head rising for his or her desk chair. His. Sherlock noted the pair of men's dress shoes tucked underneath the desk, untouched by the blood.

There was blood on the carpet, too, where the body had obviously fallen, and a small patch on the side of the duvet, probably where he had hit the covers on the way down.

Whoever had done this had removed the body, that was obvious, but hadn't bothered to clean up much – confident perhaps that it could not be traced back. That meant this was not a sloppy job, but a quick one, and he very much doubted that the victim's body was at the bottom of the canal. Heath would have disposed of it in a way that would ensure it was never found or identified.

But when?

The blood stains were dry now, brown against the carpet and walls, and the smell still hung in the air, most likely because it had got onto the bedding. At least three days old, Sherlock considered, but how would this go unnoticed? In an area such as this one, someone would report a gunshot.

Then he recalled the fireworks display he'd noted from the cab on the way back home from the Yard. The American embassy was sponsoring it, in celebration on the American Independence Day, in Regent Park, which was close enough to where Sherlock was now that the sound would be very audible, even if the fireworks were not visible.

And three nights ago, the Canadian High Commission had done the same in celebration of Canada's national holiday.

He raised his eyebrows. But his brother, of course, did not hire stupid people.

It may well have been the last job Heath had ever done for Mycroft. If Mycroft had, indeed, been the one to order it. For the first time, he regretted not being in more contact with Mycroft following David's kidnapping and getting more of a sense of what was going on in regards to the exchange that had taken place for David. How much did Mycroft's superiors know? Who were they? Where they involved in this in any way, or was this Mycroft's own work?

And who was the man who had died?

Sherlock cast his eyes about the room, getting ready to search for a wallet, passport or laptop that had all surely been taken – Heath wouldn't leave anything identifying that hinted at her victim's identity. Sherlock expected she'd been thorough, unrushed, taking her time to ensure that no trace remained that could lead the police to her.

She'd led someone to her.

Alessandra De Luca, Sherlock was certain.

His questions were answered, at least somewhat, when he noted something had fallen behind the desk, a glint of blue, red and white. He crouched down, thumb and forefinger closing over the slick polyester fabric of a small American flag.

He remembered the English-accented voice on the phone, slipping up with one small piece of American slang. And David telling them that two of his captors had been Americans, but had sounded British, like Mycroft. Like his father.

Sherlock looked about the room again – though the house was large, even for a houseboat, nothing he'd seen while searching for a light he could use indicated that more than one person had lived here. So, had Elizabeth Heath found the second kidnapper? Or had someone else done it? Was he still alive?

Sherlock found this last possibility to be unlikely – if one kidnapper was dead, and Marco De Luca, odds were the other man had not survived either.

His brother had played De Luca's game, then retaliated quite thoroughly.

Protectiveness, from Mycroft Holmes. For someone other than his brother. Sherlock noted this, uncertain if he felt sorry for David or not. He knew full well what it was like to live with his brother's special style of observation and wondered how well a ten-year-old boy would cope with it, particularly if that same child had just survived a very traumatic incident.

He wondered, then, just what kind of roll Mycroft would have in David's life, now that David knew who his father was.

He decided it was well past time for him to go, even if no one was intending to come back here. Alessandra De Luca was still alive out there. Sherlock was certain she knew where to find him, and equally certain she wanted him to come to her, although he had no idea where.

He had a fairly good idea why.

He put the flag back where it had fallen, turned off the light in the loo, and slipped back out the window, fixing the screen back in its frame when he'd done so. Sherlock stripped off his gloves as he walked away from the canal, heading toward a more populated road where he could hail a cab back to Baker Street.

* * *

He woke John up when he returned to the flat, or at least tried to. In the darkness of their bedroom, the doctor struggled to blink himself awake, eyes drifting shut again, then screwing closed before blinking back open. Then repeating the process.

"It's not morning already," John moaned, fisting a hand into his pillow, half burying his face. "No, just five more minutes, I promise I'm up then."

"Technically morning," Sherlock agreed.

"Mmm, how technically?" John mumbled, drifting off again.

"Just after one."

"Okay, I'm up," John sighed, and fell back asleep.

Sherlock sighed.

"John," he said.

"Mmm?" John murmured, rolling onto his back, draping an arm over his eyes.

"John, wake up."

With another sigh, this one different in tone and tenor, John rolled onto his left side, curling up and snuggling under the duvet, pressing his face into his left elbow, mumbling something unintelligible.

Sherlock rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

"Fine, be that way," he said. "But you shouldn't sleep on your left shoulder. It'll only aggravate it."

John didn't reply, his breathing deep and rhythmic. Sherlock gave up, knowing when he was beat – normally he could count on John to be dragged out of bed at all hours, but since that had, in essence, happened the night before followed by a full day at work, Sherlock had to admit defeat. And the previous night had seen John doing more work than he did on Sherlock's cases, where there was generally only one body, not many living injured victims who needed treatment outside a blazing inferno.

Still, it was exasperating. He was used to having John to work with.

He rolled John onto his back and the doctor gave a whimper of protest, then settled down again, his breathing deepening once more. Sherlock stayed crouched beside the bed a moment, putting one hand on John's chest, above his heart, feeling the slow and steady beat, the patterned rise and fall as he inhaled and exhaled.

Standing, Sherlock bent over and kissed John lightly. The doctor's lips moved in response, instinctively, but he didn't awaken. Taking that as final confirmation, Sherlock left their bedroom and went back to the table, where Heath's netbook was resting, plugged in and charging, and the map of London still lay spread out.

Sherlock pulled the laptop toward him and settled into a chair, snagging a pen and some paper, jotting down what he'd found at the kidnapper's home, then turning back to the computer, resuming his search through the files.

There were a number of locked identity files that Sherlock hacked into, wondering if they were Heath's aliases, but they were for both men and women, from a number of different countries, although many of the pictures in the files were the same. Sherlock began to make a list of the names assigned to each person. None of them looked like Elizabeth Heath, so he ruled out that these were her alternate identities, although he suspected she had one, or several, like Anthea.

He was mildly annoyed when he found a file on himself and found some pleasure in deleting it thoroughly, then went back to the list. In total, there were six people: four different women and two men, but without knowing who they were – or at least, who they'd been when they were born – he had no sense of who he was looking for. Unfortunately, none of the women had a file named Alessandra De Luca, and Sherlock realized he had no idea what the Italian woman looked like.

_Blast_, he thought, reaching for the phone Sam had given him.

At least one person was going to be helpful that night, like it or not.

He rang Sam's number and it was picked up on the third ring, a sleepy voice answering:

"Bessette."

"What the bloody hell are you taking to sleep?" Sherlock asked, immediately aware that the Interpol agent was not this groggy sounding on his own; his training would have avoided that, and he doubted Sam slept deeply enough now without help to sound like that when he was awoken, even in the middle of the night.

"Loprazolam," Sam murmured.

"You do know that can be habit-forming, don't you? And that it's effectiveness can decrease over time?"

"Well it certainly doesn't work when you're calling me at one-thirty in the bloody morning," Sam commented dryly. "What the hell do you want? Find something?"

"Possibly. I need access to your Interpol database."

"What?" Sam said, but didn't seem to come much more awake. Sherlock chewed his lower lip, but he could use that, he thought. "Why? And no."

"I can access it with or without your help, Sam, but it will go quicker if you give me right of entry. Do you want me wasting my time outsmarting your system?"

"I'd like to see you try," Sam said wearily. "What did you find?"

"I need your information on Alessandra De Luca," Sherlock said, not really answering the question. "It may help pin down her whereabouts. I think Heath was onto her aliases, at least some of them, but I don't know what De Luca actually looks like, so I can't be certain. Whatever you have, it may fill in the gaps."

"Why don't I just come over and go through it with you?"

"Because I'm already dealing with John being useless and nearly comatose, I don't need a second person better at sleeping than working tonight. And it will take time. By the sounds of you, you'd forget to dress before leaving, too, and have yourself arrested for indecent exposure."

"I don't think I bothered changing," Sam replied. "Mmm... Against my better judgment, fine. Do you have access to the internet?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, opening the browser on his own laptop, using his own wireless connection which was as secure as it could be – he should know, he'd made Mycroft set it up, then refined it so his brother would have troubles accessing it. He waited for Sam to wake up more fully and realize that what he was talking Sherlock through was a dreadfully bad idea, but the benzodiazepines were doing their job, and Sam was displaying the characteristic symptoms of drowsiness, confusion, and possibly – if Sherlock were lucky – amnesia.

In the back of his mind, he could hear John lecturing him about how what he was doing was terribly wrong, but Sherlock ignored his husband's mental intrusions and focused on the instructions Sam was giving him. A few times, the Interpol agent drifted off and Sherlock had to prompt him, reminding him of what he was doing and what stage they were at in Sam's logging into his system via Sherlock. Eventually, he got there, and flashed a smile of grim delight.

"Brilliant, Sam, thank you," Sherlock said. "Go back to sleep."

He rang off before Sam could say anything else and stared at the screen a moment. He had access to all of Yves Bessette's files because, as far as the system was concerned, he was Yves Bessette. It was like finding an untapped gold mine in the middle of London.

Sherlock grinned again, rising to scoop up the file Sam had given him on Marco De Luca's death. He opened in front of him, then put his laptop beside Heath's, navigating through Sam's current work until he found what he was looking for: reports from a field agent, Charles Thorton, if that was actually his name, detailing what had happened in Edinburgh and the subsequent events for which Sherlock had not been present.

It was more information than even Heath's laptop had, and Sherlock wondered how this Thorton had come to be such a capable agent, and if he might actually be Sam himself, but dismissed that, because Mycroft would recognize Sam, having met him once and having tried to access his files, when Sam had still been a constable with the London police, although he'd looked slightly different back then.

He found a file on Alessandra De Luca and opened it, his grey eyes suddenly gleaming. The woman staring at him, early forties, tall, distinguished, dark brown hair highlighted with caramels and dark blonds, her features angular but not quite gaunt, was the same woman in several of the identity files on Heath's laptop.

Sherlock grinned again, his expression triumphant, somewhat feral, and set to work matching up the information Sam had probably unwittingly given him with the information Heath had died protecting.

Some time later, he pulled out his phone, sitting in the glow from both monitors and the small lamp that he had lit to illuminate the map of the city. Sherlock thumbed through the images he stored on his phone, scrolling through a series of folders that seemed like an endless maze of Russian dolls, designed to look like an accidental set up rather than the deliberate masking of files that it was.

He had two photos of David MacTaggart, the ones that the kidnappers had sent to him with text message instructions. He had meant to delete them, but when he'd gone to do so, he'd found himself reluctant. Not that he wanted the two images of the boy, the first showing David either sleeping or unconscious, drugged and hand-cuffed, the second showing him awake, tears streaking down a bruised face.

It was some inborn instinct about Mycroft that made Sherlock keep these. He had no desire to blackmail his brother over David's existence – it didn't matter anyway, since David now knew who his father was, but some indefinable _thing_ had made him withhold from deleting them. Nor did he think his brother would be all that amenable to demands put forth centering on David, given what had just happened to the boy.

Now he was glad he'd listened to himself.

He was quite bright, all things considered. Even when John did call him an idiot.

Both Sam and Elizabeth Heath had been halfway there. Sherlock had met them in the middle and finished the puzzle for them.

On his own laptop, accessing Sam's files, were a series of photographs and a map of a dock in the Barking wharf. The photographs showed a small storage room, presumably part of a larger complex, concrete walls, concrete floor, dim and probably cold. The images were slightly tinted blue, indicating the lighting wasn't as bright as it could be, probably indirect, and that no natural light made it in.

The same colour as the background behind David in both photographs that had been sent to Sherlock.

But Sam didn't seem to have the information Heath had on Alessandra De Luca's aliases. He'd found _where_ David MacTaggart had been kept during the three days he'd been missing, but not why.

Elizabeth Heath had found the why without knowing it.

The dock was registered to a small private scrap metal contracting firm, which, when Sherlock did some further investigation, didn't seem to do much in the way of actual shipping, or business at all. He'd chased down the contacts for the firm, all of whom seemed to be no more than smoke and lights, and found a woman buried beneath all of them, Carina Maria Ruiz.

Better known to Sherlock as Alessandra De Luca.

Part of Sherlock was enraged that Marco De Luca had had David in London the entire time, and Mycroft had dragged Sherlock and John up to Edinburgh while David was almost right under their noses.

Another, larger, part was exultant.

_I have you_, he thought.

He rose, grabbing both of his phones, then retrieving his gun, securing it in his belt against the small of his back, not easily detectable beneath the light coat he would wear. A police officer who was paying sharp attention might spot it, but he doubted anyone would be watching him that closely. Unless it was Mycroft, although hopefully Sam had made some headway in keeping his brother off his tail while Sherlock had been at the evidence impound.

He paused, looking toward the bedroom, then frowned.

He remembered John, with the semtex-laden vest at The Pool, walking in, hands raised, expression caught between terrified and resigned. He remembered how that had felt, the shock that had dropped like a stone in his stomach, the moment of cold paralysis in which his only thought was that he was going to lose his closest friend.

He remembered Sam, pinned against Moriarty on the Waterloo Bridge, bruised, cut, likely barely able to stand, only doing so because he was being forced, fighting down terror and revulsion as Moriarty had tauntingly kissed his neck.

He even remembered Mycroft, when his brother had realized who had David, and the exquisite moment of horror realizing he was unlikely to be allowed to trade his son's life for Alessandra's freedom.

_No_, Sherlock decided. _Not this time._

He picked up his keys and slipped out of the flat.


	8. Chapter 8

"John, wake up! John!"

John groaned, burying his face in the pillow, trying to ignore the voice.

"Sod off, Sherlock," he mumbled, feeling the warmth of the pillowcase against his skin, the faint scent of himself that clung to it. It was cosy in the bed, and he was still tired, and it couldn't be that late in the morning yet. Hadn't Sherlock just tried to wake him up a few minutes ago? He snuggled further down under the duvet, determined, in a hazy way, to win this battle. "I'm still sleeping."

"It's not bloody Sherlock! Get up! Now!"

Something in the last barked command resonated with the part of him that would always be a soldier and he felt his body reacting instinctively, moving to sit him up before his brain had fully caught up with the situation. The first sentence sped his brain up fast, though – someone who wasn't Sherlock was in their bedroom.

For a moment, his mind latched onto Mycroft, but the tone was all wrong, the insistent commands, the lack of assured superiority and detachment in the voice.

Sam was watching him in the lamplight, and John had a moment's shock to realize the younger man had turned on that light without John waking up – but then, he was used to this kind of thing from Sherlock.

Then he registered the blazing expression in Sam's green eyes and its various sources – he was angry about something, urgently, but also distinctly unhappy about being in the same room as a pyjama-clad man. Especially since John was wearing only boxers and a t-shirt against the warm summer weather. Different types of tensions warred on Sam's face, but he was doing a good job, John thought, of commanding them, not letting them command him.

"Get dressed right now!" Sam ordered and John found himself obeying, struggling to get the questions on his tongue to line up properly.

"Where's – "

"He bloody well went after Alessandra De Luca on his bloody own!" Sam shot as John hopped into a pair of jeans, then paused, turning to look back at Sam, who was standing with his arms crossed, eyes turned away from John. He met the doctor's gaze again and John finished dressing fast, starting to understand the urgency behind the agent's expression.

"Your gun, get your gun," Sam commanded. John did so without hesitation, loading it with practiced and instinctive ease, snagging his wallet and phone from the bedside table drawer and pushing the wallet into the back pocket of his jeans and the phone into one of the front pockets.

The moment John appeared ready, Sam was striding out of the bedroom, toward the door of the flat, then finding John's keys in their usual resting place on the small table by the door, tossing them at him. John had enough time to register that there were two computers on the table and a map of London. One laptop was Sherlock's, the other John hadn't seen before, and it was smaller, a netbook computer rather than a proper laptop. The map was light by a small reading lamp, and both computers were closed, their screens flipped down.

He shoved his shoes on, Sam's green eyes flashing at him impatiently. John felt the beginnings of adrenaline, the eons old flight or fight response, this time telling him to fight. He tried to keep his heart rate down by matching his breathing, but he was more awake now, and it clicked suddenly that Sherlock may not have sent Sam. That Sam may have come for John to chase Sherlock down.

Dozens more questions leapt to the front of his brain and he was surprised to hear himself ask one of the least important ones:

"How did you get in?"

His mind took the precious time to worry about this? Mycroft got in all the time, it seemed. As did Mrs. Hudson. Sam was an Interpol agent. Did they teach lock picking in Interpol training?

"Your landlady," Sam said, hustling John out, clattering down the stairs as John locked the door then ran after him. John was momentarily glad at least their flat wasn't being broken into by yet another person, but then forced himself to dismiss this, along with the remaining confusion born from being woken up abruptly by someone he wasn't expecting after a day of not nearly enough sleep and too much work.

_Sherlock_, he thought.

Outside, there was a police car stopped half onto the sidewalk, lights glaring blue and red across the street in the pre-dawn semi-darkness. John could see the barricades that were still standing, up the street, blocking off access to the scene of the explosion, and several police officers were watching them from behind the lines, keeping an eye on things, waiting to see if assistance was needed.

"Did you bloody steal this?" John asked as he climbed hurriedly into the passenger's side, Sam sliding in behind the wheel with something that looked like practiced ease, as if he was long familiar with being precisely where he was now.

"Commandeered it, John," Sam snapped.

"Didn't know you could do that," John managed to comment.

Sam gave him a grin that was not at all pleasant, teeth barred.

"Neither did I," he admitted. "The Interpol badge did the trick."

"Can you even drive?" John asked.

Sam paused, hand on the gearshift, and stared at John for a long second.

"I did used to be police constable here," he reminded John. "I drove these all the time. Buckle in."

John did so fast and Sam put the car in gear, pulling it off the sidewalk and onto the road with obvious practiced efficiency, keeping the sirens off but the lights on. John braced one hand against the roof, watching London streak by, the buildings dark shadows highlighted with orange or white light from the streetlamps here and there, hints of the approaching dawn spilling onto the street. In the east, the sky was already much lighter as the summer day spun toward them, but the buildings were tall enough to keep the first of the sunrise at bay.

"What the hell is going on?" John finally demanded, finding the breath and composure to do so, his mind racing to keep up in the speeding car, with the younger man driving confidently beside him. It was incongruous – he was used to dashing about with Sherlock, secure in the knowledge that his husband was there, even if they were plunging head long into danger.

John usually had some good feel for what that danger was, too, if only through listening to Sherlock's deductions and rapid spoken train of thought.

"Your bloody husband bloody well went after De Luca by himself," Sam snapped back. "Do you have _any_ idea how much of an idiot he is?"

"Yes," John muttered, feeling a wry and out-of-place flash of humour.

"He'll be lucky if I don't shoot him myself when we get to him," Sam said, swerving easily to avoid a car and John felt his stomach lurch, but behind the French Interpol agent was the London police officer, and it seemed Sam had retained his touch for driving the streets at high speeds. John supposed they were lucky, in a way, since it was so early; the streets were more deserted than they would be otherwise.

"How did he find her?" John demanded.

"The information on Heath's netbook – the other computer that was on the table, that's what was in the case in the car. She had information on De Luca's aliases, since she's part of the team that managed to arrest De Luca."

"But how did he know where to go?"

"That was from me," Sam said. "I gave him access to my Interpol database."

John stared at Sam across the car, one hand still braced on the roof.

"You did _what_?" he demanded. "Do you _know_ how bloody insane that is? Giving Sherlock Holmes access to Interpol?"

"I wanted to see what he'd come up with," Sam growled. "And he thought I was drugged on sleep medication."

"What?" John snapped.

"I was sleeping when he called me to get access to my files. He would have broken in anyway – this was quicker. I let him think I was taking sleep medication so he wouldn't wonder why I was giving in so easily."

John opened his mouth to say something, then realized he had nothing to say. Nothing coherent anyway – he had a few choice curse words from his time in the army he could employ.

Since he so rarely got the opportunity to do so, he used them now.

"He had more information than I did!" Sam snapped by way of reply. "I didn't think he'd dash off on his own to confront her! He was supposed to bloody call me or wake you – or act like some sort of sane person and not run off after an international drugs smuggler who has a vendetta against his brother completely on his own!"

"This is _Sherlock_ we're talking about!" John retorted. "Expecting him to do anything rational is bloody stupid on your part!"

"Apparently," Sam muttered in agreement. "This is why he'll be lucky if I don't shoot him. If Alessandra doesn't get to him first."

John felt his blood run cold.

"Where is he?"

"The Barking wharf," Sam said. "I didn't tell you, but we – well, my field agent – located where Marco De Luca kept David MacTaggart. We'd figured out where, but not why. We looked, but the docks he used didn't seem to be linked to him or any of his associates, because we didn't have the information your brother or Elizabeth Heath did on her aliases."

He sighed, a sound that was incongruous with speeding down the street, veering into an oncoming traffic lane to pass two cabs who were already going at a decent clip.

"How do you know about De Luca's aliases now?" John demanded.

"I took a minute to look at her notebook before waking you," Sam replied. "I may be a bloody idiot, but at least not a total bloody idiot. Sherlock took what we both had and put it all together. And De Luca wants him."

"Why?" John asked.

"Because Mycroft had her grandfather assassinated. I'm willing to bet she'd rather go after David again, but at the moment, no one is getting near him. Sherlock's the next best thing."

If John had thought his blood had run cold before, he'd been wrong. He felt a chill grip him hard, fast, so that his stomach churned with nausea. Instinctively, he began to pull his phone from his pocket but Sam reached out, holding an arm across the car for a moment before returning his hand to the wheel so he could swerve around more traffic, red and blue lights reflecting off metallic surfaces as they tore past.

"No, don't alert him, it will only alert her!" he snapped.

"What if she's already shot him?" John yelled.

"We're in a speeding police car, John! If my estimates aren't wrong, we're near enough behind that we have time. Besides, if she wanted to kill him straight off, she'd have bombed your flat, too, or shot him in the street. Mycroft took away something she loves. Mycroft took away her freedom for seven months, too. She will want to enjoy this."

None of that made John feel any better whatsoever.

"What if you're wrong?"

Sam glanced over at him, green eyes bright in the low light.

"Best hope I'm not," he said.

He slowed fast and John thought he was adjusting to traffic or getting ready to turn, but then Sam slammed the car into park and cut the engine. John realized they were there – he could smell the river in the near distance, and it was dark and deserted here, the shipyards not open yet for the morning.

"I need you to trust me right now," Sam said, one hand on the door handle, but the door still closed.

"The problem is, when you say 'me', I don't know who you mean," John snapped back.

"Any of me, all of me, take your pick. Sam Waters if you want. Whatever you can do, John. This isn't James Moriarty," John noted the increased tension that crept into Sam's voice when he said Moriarty's name, "She'll want to play with him, but this isn't a game. She doesn't want to outwit him. But because it's not Moriarty, we may have an advantage."

"What do you want me to do?" John growled.

"Find and incapacitate any back up she has," Sam said. "And trust me enough to do my job. I'll need a distraction from you at some point. You'll know when. And do not – do _not_ – shoot her unless you absolutely cannot avoid it. That's best left to me – fewer complications that way."

Part of John was surprised at the practicality of that, part of him was not. He had not been a soldier for nothing, and he realized suddenly that they made a pair with a decent chance – a highly trained Interpol agent and a highly trained former British soldier and army doctor.

"Let's go," Sam said, swinging his door open. "Stay close to me, and stay silent."

John did not even need to be told.

* * *

The relief at seeing Sherlock still alive, still standing and uninjured, made John weak at the knees but he repressed it savagely, drawing on years of military service to do so. Sherlock's hands were raised, palms forward, to about shoulder level, and his gun lay between him and Alessandra De Luca on the concrete floor. Of all things, Sherlock didn't even really look that concerned.

_Bloody idiot_, John thought. The Italian woman had a gun aimed at him, arms raised to eye level, her stance wide enough to absorb the recoil if she fired, her gaze and hands steady. John's eyes skittered across her face – her brown hair with its blond highlights was pulled back, casually, almost messily, but her eyes were bright with anger and hatred. He'd seen that kind of blazing resentment before, when someone had stripped away all other desires and wanted revenge for an injustice done.

He hoped to hell Sherlock understood how serious this was.

They were talking, snapping at each other really, although Sherlock's voice was calmer – John recognized the tone he used to get people to continue talking, even when they didn't want to. Alessandra was probably not a psychopath, just a high placed international criminal – _just_, John snorted to himself – so she likely wasn't interested in games. Sam was right about that, John considered, but she was also angry, and Sherlock was keeping her off balance.

That could go wrong, in so many ways.

He swept his eyes across the empty storage room – no scrap metal in evidence here. It was likely used to move drugs, or may have been, before it had been compromised. He wondered if Marco De Luca had realized that Interpol had found this place and abandoned it, but dismissed that. It wasn't important.

There was a mezzanine level above the main storage area, which was fairly small. The walkway ringed the room, and John could see some crates stacked here and there, creating deeper shadows above them.

It was those that he focused on while Sam kept his eyes turned to Sherlock and De Luca. John evaluated the shadows near the crates carefully, keeping his breathing slow, steady. They themselves were camouflaged in the deep shadows near the door, at an angle where Sherlock was just more than half facing them, and Alessandra was almost half turned away. Sam was standing against the wall, and would be almost immediately visible if Alessandra turned, which he'd done on purpose. John was crouched opposite him, scanning the mezzanine.

It took him a minute to find what he was looking for, then he nodded at Sam, holding up one finger, then pointing upward.

Sam nodded back, mouthing "go", pointing back down the corridor. John eased himself up and slipped back down, footfalls silent, Sam right behind him. The Interpol agent then moved in front of him, leading him through a maze of short corridors until they reached the other entrance to the room, the double doors that were used for deliveries propped open, an abandoned cargo dolly sitting in front of one of them.

The shadows were deeper back here, and John was grateful. The fluorescent lighting was high, but only one light was lit, directly over Sherlock and Alessandra, to keep the identity of Alessandra's backup secret.

Not that Sherlock would have missed it, John was certain.

Sam pointed to a ladder and mouthed "up" and John nodded, tucking his Browning into the waistband of his jeans after ensuring the safety was on. He scaled the ladder silently, leaving Sam crouching in the darkness.

When he gained the mezzanine level, he pulled out his gun and eased the safety off, staying in a crouch near the back wall, listening hard, ignoring the conversation below him. There was no one immediately nearby and John was confident in his assessment that there was only one other shooter with De Luca, but he wasn't about to rush headlong into anything on the basis of that confidence – he could be wrong.

He crept silently along the wall, slowly circling the circumference of the room, navigating past Sherlock until his husband was in profile, then in full view.

The other man – John could tell it was a man, based on the shape of the shadows – was using the crates as concealment, but also to brace his sniper rifle. John evaluated this quickly – nothing in the man's bearing suggested he was untrained, although it was difficult to determine if he had military or private training. Didn't much matter, John supposed. He was behind De Luca, which was good. It meant the sniper could see Sherlock's face and reactions, but it also meant that De Luca could not see the movement when John stepped forward and pressed the muzzle of his gun against the base of the man's skull and wrapped his left arm around the sniper, clamping a hand firmly over his mouth.

"Drop it," John whispered in a voice that he knew wouldn't carry. "I'm a crack shot myself, and it's not like I've very far to aim."

The man was frozen for a moment, then very slowly lowered his rifle, pulling his hands back, fingers spread and palms out. John could feel the tension that had flashed into the sniper the moment he'd been caught by surprise.

Sam was right – De Luca was not Moriarty. Moriarty would have had them surrounded. But Moriarty had wanted to play games, had wanted to control all of the variables, where De Luca just wanted Sherlock dead.

Although that wasn't particularly reassuring.

John pinned the other man neatly, one knee digging into the backs of the other man's knees, his other leg bent and braced on the floor next to the crate, so he could keep the sniper pressed between himself and the crate. He wasn't too worried about the man's arms, in part because he had his left upper arm locked in his grip, and a gun to the back of the man's head. It generally made most people reconsider their immediate plans about moving, lest someone else reconsider their immediate plans about breathing.

He needed the opportunity for the distraction that Sam wanted him to make. A good knock on the back of the head with the butt of his gun would take care of the man temporarily, but would draw attention to them.

Almost as if on cue, Sam stepped from the shadows, walking slowly, weapon raised and aimed at De Luca. The woman started and John had a flash of panic that she'd fire, but she kept her weapon trained evenly on Sherlock, her attention redirected somewhat to the Interpol agent closing the distance between them carefully. John wished for a moment that he could see her face, and then pressed the gun more firmly against the sniper's head when some instinct told him the man might make a noise or move, even if it meant his life.

"They aren't paying you enough for that, no matter how much it is," John hissed lowly in the man's ear. He almost laughed when he got the barest of nods in reply.

"Who are you?" De Luca asked. Her voice was low and smooth, silky, accented with Italian. It reverberated through John – it was the kind of voice most men would fantasize about, hearing it, picturing it in the darkness, in the low lighting, speaking only to them. He wasn't immune to it, because Sherlock was the only man who'd ever interested him, but he ignored it. And, he realized, she had a disadvantage against Sherlock and Sam. Sherlock would not care, because women weren't attractive to him, and Sam was unlikely to trust that kind of voice, since he scarcely trusted anything at all, let alone anything suggestive.

The expression on Sam's face told John he was right.

"Interpol," Sam replied. "Put down your weapon."

"Or what?" De Luca said smoothly as Sam continued to advance, slowly, steadily, still behind Sherlock. "Do you know who this man is?"

Sam nodded, weapon unmoving, steps even.

"Mycroft Holmes' younger brother," he replied. John saw an actual flash of distaste on Sherlock's face at that – the bloody idiot he called his husband was actually taking offense to being dismissed as Mycroft's brother right now?

"Yes," De Luca replied, her voice throaty, warm. "And why would an Interpol agent care?"

"About him?" Sam asked. "I don't. It's Mycroft I'm interested in." He grinned another of his feral grins and John wondered if he'd learned deliberately to do that, or if what Moriarty had done to him had unleashed some instability that manifested itself like that. He hoped for the former. "If only because he's led me right to you. Put down your weapon."

"I think not," De Luca replied easily. "What shall you do? Shoot me? I'm not alone, and I could shoot him before you were able to shoot me."

"Oh, I'm not interested in shooting you," Sam said. "It's not much of a threat if you have a sniper covering your back. But it would quite ruin all of your plans if I shot him, wouldn't it?"

He stepped up beside Sherlock then and changed the hold of his gun, transferring it solely to his right hand and pressing the muzzle against Sherlock's neck.


	9. Chapter 9

Everything could be managed.

Every person, every situation, every shift in circumstance. There was always some way, be it a weakness or a price or condition. There was always a solution, if one looked hard enough, if one was bright enough to see it.

Although it displeased Sherlock to admit it, he had learned that from Mycroft.

It was simply a matter of finding it.

The ease at which the solution could be found varied however, depending on the adversary. It had been difficult – _challenging_ – with Moriarty, in a way that kept him on his game, forced him to think, but that had also frustrated him, because he'd been required to follow Moriarty's lead all too often, which was really not that amusing.

It had been somehow more difficult with Mycroft, because Sherlock never knew precisely what his brother wanted, and Mycroft had an unfortunate tendency to withhold vital information that most people would share with their families, such as the fact that he had a son. Learning about David's existence was valuable, although Sherlock had yet to put it to good use. Although it had been interesting, for the first little while, to see his brother squirm, helpless in the face of someone else, in front of Sherlock.

Until things had become more serious, and John had called him out about that.

This woman, though, her motivations were quite obvious.

She wanted him dead.

But she also wanted him to suffer. Him, not John, not anyone else, because this was ultimately not about him.

This was about Mycroft.

He wasn't concerned that she was going to shoot him straight off, at least not anywhere fatal. The first shot she'd take, he deduced, would be in the knee, which was highly – excruciatingly – painful, but not deadly. Unless he made a stupid move, and then she'd probably shoot him in the chest, or head. Or possibly the abdomen? That would kill him, fairly quickly, but also very painfully.

He ignored the small voice in his head that told him perhaps coming alone had been a stupid move.

All that was required was to keep her talking for long enough to form a plan, which, knowing him – and he did know himself – would not take very long. Sniper back up or no.

There were always ways.

Sherlock was almost disappointed when he caught sight of someone creeping along the mezzanine, deep in the shadows, stealthy and silent. That would be John. When it came down to it, Sherlock knew his husband could be quite dangerous, when called upon, when necessary. And quite effective at getting a job done.

He kept talking, somewhat less concerned now, not at all acknowledging what he'd seen, and wondered where Sam was. It didn't occur to him that John had come alone – half of the information he'd used to find De Luca had come from Sam, so it was reasonable to assume that Sam had somehow filled in the gaps.

Slightly later than Sherlock had.

Although some explanation as to how Sam had done this when doped up on sleeping medications would be required.

A moment later, the sniper was incapacitated, at the mercy of John's Browning and John's rather unforgiving hold, which was probably painful, given that the man had been kneeling down and was now crushed between John's body and the crate, a gun against his head.

Sherlock ignored this, too. De Luca couldn't see it, but she was still armed, even if her sniper had been disabled.

A moment later, he heard footsteps behind him but didn't turn, knowing who it was, and pleased that he'd been right. Also, annoyed that they hadn't left him to sort this out – what kind of fun was that?

De Luca was somewhat startled, brown eyes flashing, but kept her weapon trained on Sherlock, who watched her with renewed concentration, keeping his ears attuned to Sam's slow and deliberate progress. The woman's eyes narrowed, sliding over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Who are you?" she demanded in a voice that would be perfectly pitched, smooth and low, like molten dark chocolate, to be utterly appealing to men.

Most men.

Sherlock wondered what John thought of it – probably thought it was sexy, because John had not at all lost his appreciation of women, nor did Sherlock ever expect him to. He himself thought it was pretentious. De Luca probably sounded like that most of the time, but she was a professional, well trained, groomed by her grandfather to move among the powerful elite of international drugs trade. An exotic Italian woman such as her would use every means at her disposal.

Unfortunately for her, he thought it would have little effect on Sam, either, given what Sam had gone through. And the fact that Sam could stand up to Veronique and probably held his own against her on a regular basis. This woman could learn a thing or two from Veronique, Sherlock thought. Although hopefully she would not have the chance.

"Interpol," Sam replied. "Put down your weapon."

"Or what?" De Luca said smoothly as Sam continued to advance, slowly, steadily, still behind Sherlock, slightly to his right. "Do you know who this man is?"

"Mycroft Holmes' younger brother," he replied.

Irritation flashed through Sherlock and his lips twitched into a sneer. _Mycroft Holmes' younger brother?_ What kind of bloody nonsense was that? Even if he'd come to the attention of Interpol, it should be in his own right. Not as some minor accessory to his tiresome and exasperating brother. Sherlock's work ought to stand on its own, not as some pale reflection of Mycroft's.

"Yes," De Luca replied, her voice throaty, warm. "And why would an Interpol agent care?"

"About him?" Sam asked. "I don't. It's Mycroft I'm interested in. If only because he's led me right to you. Put down your weapon."

Sherlock could hear something in Sam's voice, something brittle, but it seemed feigned to him. He hoped so – the last thing they needed now was for Sam to weaken, to succumb to some sort of PTSD episode, to forget or forgo all of his careful training and become unpredictable.

Sherlock smoothed his own expression over, keeping his eyes trained on De Luca.

"I think not," De Luca replied easily. "What shall you do? Shoot me? I'm not alone, and I could shoot him before you were able to shoot me."

"Oh, I'm not interested in shooting you," Sam said. "It's not much of a threat if you have a sniper covering your back. But it would quite ruin all of your plans if I shot him, wouldn't it?"

He stepped up beside Sherlock then and changed the hold of his gun, transferring it solely to his right hand and pressing the muzzle against Sherlock's neck.

* * *

That _was_ unexpected.

Sherlock felt his pulse jump, knocking against the muzzle of the gun pressed into his skin.

He let the surprise show in his face, mixing it with fear he did not feel, suppressing the irritation.

Did they expect him to sort this out with the complications they'd introduced? He'd need a few more minutes to think.

Sam's gun dug into his neck and Sherlock refocused quickly, eyes on De Luca, parting his lips slightly as if he wanted to speak, to negotiate for his life, as if he were afraid.

A quick, sidelong glance at Sam made him wonder if perhaps he should be. The Italian woman was regaining her composure, a timely moment almost lost, then a sound from behind and above her distracted her, and Sherlock felt the pressure of Sam's gun on his skin lessen, although not quite disappear, as the Interpol agent began to shift his focus quickly.

* * *

It was enough for John.

He pulled his left hand away from the sniper's mouth and knocked him quickly, expertly, on the back of his skull with the butt of his gun, putting all of his not inconsiderable strength into the swing. The man made an involuntary sound then slumped forward and John was off him in an instant, ducking away, re-emerging on the other side of the small pile of crates to see De Luca reacting, her attention snagged away for a moment.

Then she was pulling it back, and John could see, through years of experience, her finger tightening on the trigger and the set of the muscles in her shoulders as she prepared to re-aim and fire.

Sam, who had been waiting for precisely this, was faster. He swung the gun away from Sherlock – a flash of relief coursed through John and he saw Sherlock react too, even if he hadn't meant to – and toward De Luca, wrapping his left hand around his right, and fired twice, once high, once somewhat lower.

Head and chest shots.

John ducked again, covering his own head with his hands, then pushed himself up again, still crouched behind the crates. Sherlock was on the floor – he'd been moving as soon as Sam had fired, almost too quickly for John to have registered it. Sam had stepped aside, weapon still raised and aimed at De Luca, although the angle was different, since De Luca now lay still, utterly unmoving, on the concrete floor, two dark stains spreading out around her, slowly blending together.

For a moment, all three of them remained frozen, then John eased himself around the crates, divesting the sniper of his rifle, which had lain abandoned on a wooden crate top, ensuring that if the man suddenly regained consciousness – which he wouldn't, because John was a doctor as well as a soldier and knew how to knock someone out as well as revive them – he'd have no easy access to a gun.

He searched the sniper quickly, finding two pistols and removed those as well, then stood fast, looking back down, seething, the adrenaline, suddenly no longer needed, making him feel punchy, almost drunk.

"Bloody useless bloody idiots the pair of you!" he shouted, gripping the railings, blood hammering in his ears, uncertain if he was livid or relieved or both. "No wonder you're such good mates! You're both the stupidest, most irresponsible, most - _insane_ people on the face of this planet! Tell me precisely what I did to earn this bloody nonsense, can you? No, on second thought, I don't want to know! I should wash my hands of you both right now!

Not to his surprise, Sherlock started to laugh, grey eyes glinting as he raised them toward John, and John heightened his glare, knowing it was useless. He felt dizzy and redoubled his grip on the railing, wondering if he out to shoot Sherlock in the knee or foot just to get him to stop finding this so funny, then realized that Sherlock had been too close to being shot as it was.

Again.

Sam began to chuckle as well, relaxing somewhat, shaking his head, raising his eyes to find John's figure in the dimness. His expression, John considered, was far too jovial for the circumstances.

_Mad_, he thought. _They're both mad. And here I am, right with them._

"He says that," Sherlock commented, off-handedly, casually, as if explaining some trivial thing to Sam. "But he never means it."

"I bloody well mean it now!" John shouted down. "You – you _utter idiot_! You'll be bloody lucky if I ever shag you again! And as for you, _Agent Bessette _– "

"You can hardly chastise me with the same threat, John," Sam replied, finally lowering his weapon somewhat, taking a cautious step toward De Luca's body. "Besides, I'll be in enough hot water from Interpol as it is, I assure you. Nothing you can intimidate me with can stand up to that. Believe me."

He crouched down carefully and checked for a pulse on De Luca's neck, just to make sure, then put his weapon away, satisfied.

"Tie up the ineffective sniper and come down, John," Sherlock said, retrieving his own weapon from the floor, speaking indulgently, as if an international drugs smuggler had not just had him alone at gun point in an abandoned dockyard at dawn.

John growled and Sherlock only gave him a knowing look, which made John want to growl all the more. He held Sherlock's gaze with a glare of his own for a moment but knew he'd been beaten. He could never win against Sherlock's steady stare, no matter how long he'd known the consulting genius – _idiot_, John's brain supplied – or how much he tried.

He suspected he didn't want to, because the day he could was the day Sherlock was bested.

But Sherlock didn't need to know that.

With a snarl, he turned his attention back to the unconscious man and used the sniper's clothing, removed or with bits torn off, to bind his hands behind him and to the railing, so he was seated, his head slumped forward, and to bind his ankles. For good measure, John secured him to the railing at the waist, too, making sure the knot at his waist was pressed against his stomach, not his back, so that there was no way his bound hands could reach it.

Below him, he heard Sam say:

"Don't you know that Loprazolam can be habit-forming and can lose its effectiveness over time?"

"What?" Sherlock demanded and John could almost hear him narrowing his eyes. Despite himself, he snickered, knowing the sound wouldn't carry.

"That's why I haven't taken it in over half a year," Sam replied. "I have other benzodiazepines for the times when the anxiety is particularly bad, but usually if I need to sleep and am having troubles, I take anti-histamines."

"Anti-histamines?" Sherlock snapped, managing to sound both disdainful and disappointed at the same time.

"It's mild and it works and it doesn't interfere with the mess of other drugs they make me take," Sam said simply. "You didn't think I'd give you access to Interpol's database without knowing what I was doing, did you? I logged in right after you did. Despite what John thinks, I am not generally a bloody useless bloody idiot."

At this, John rolled his eyes and Sherlock's only reply was a low growl, which John knew meant he was impressed in addition to being well and thoroughly annoyed.

He always did find it irritating when other people were clever, John thought.

He found a closer ladder and descended to main level, where Sam was now on the phone with the police, reporting a shooting and giving them their location.

"Best leave now, before they arrive," Sherlock said when Sam had rung off. John fancied he could already hear sirens in the distance, but wondered if he were mistaken – his heart was still beating hard enough that the blood was rushing in his ears, although the sound was beginning to taper off, leaving him with an odd tingling sensation in his fingers and on his scalp.

"No," Sam said, pocketing his phone, and both Sherlock and John looked at him in surprise. "You don't need to clean up this mess for me, and they'll be able to track the bullet from my gun anyway. It _is _a registered law enforcement weapon, after all. Interpol will find out once the police start searching for my gun, and they'll catch on if I try to remove it from the system."

He considered the body on the ground almost thoughtfully.

"Besides," he said. "I've come this far and am neck deep in it already, I may as well go all the way. If I'm going to earn the trouble, I should be allowed to enjoy it – it would be nice to see Greg again. Maybe some of the others. And if it's done officially, properly, Interpol can take credit for it, which will lessen the sting of whatever they're going to hit me with. They'll hate it, but this will make us look good, and they can't argue against the fact that I've stopped a wanted international drugs smuggler."

He paused again, looking up, green eyes darting between Sherlock and John, expression more serious now. Now there were sirens in the distance; John could hear their shrill cries cutting through the air, even in here.

"And it's not me I'm especially worried about," Sam said, shaking his head. "Because I'm not the one who has to deal with Mycroft Holmes after all of this. Whatever they do, whatever throw at me, I do not envy you that."


End file.
